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In reading matter.
The Magazine of Prophetic Fiction
Vol. XXVI. No. 1
Summer, 1944
TlcxL Qaaujl
THE ETERNAL
NOW
A Novelet of the
Fourth Dimension
By MURRAY
LEINSTER
THE LAST MAN IN
NEW YORK
An Amazing Novelet
By PAUL MacNAMARA
BEYOND THE
VORTEX
An Interplanetary Novelet
By FRANK BELKNAP LONG
Plus Many Others
COMPLETE SCIENTIFICTION NOVEL
the Ginni ruht
Bv ROSS ROCKLVIWE
Trapped Under an Impenetrable Dome, Hollywood
Faces Colossal Disaster as All Its People Descend
into Smallness—with Only Perry Wren to Direct
Their Battle Against a Weird Blight!. II
A Fantastic Novelet
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI.Albert De Pina 64
With Civilization at Stake, Space Pilot Phillip Varon
Undertakes a Mission of Many Perils!
Thrilling Short Stories
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.Frank Ferry 45
A Prize-Winning Amateur Contest Story.
TERROR IN THE DUST.Paul S. Powers 55
Dr. Kronk's Experiments Release Malignant Forces.
HELICOPTER INVASION Ford Smith 79
A Grim Aerial Menace Suddenly Strikes.
THE DEVOURING TIDE.Polton Cross 82
A Scientific Wizard Plans New Universes.
GOD OF LIGHT.Lloyd Arthur Eshbach 93
An Unearthly Visitor Stalks the Brazilian Jungle.
Special Features
THE READER SPEAKS.Sergeant Saturn 6
"DREAMING" DOWN AXIS PLANES.Sam Merwin, Jr. 42
SCIENTIFACTS . Oddities 51
HEADLINERS IN THE NEXT ISSUE.Announcements 63
WONDERS. OF WAR.Fact Feature 81
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY.A Department 110
ON THE COVER.- Painting by Earle Bergey depicts a scene from
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI, by Albert De Pina.
Published quarterly by STANDARD MAGAZINES, INC., 10 East 40th Street, New York 16, N. Y. N. h.
Pines, President. Copyright, 1944, by Standard Magazines, Inc. Subscription (12 issues) $1.80, single copies,
15c, Poreign, postage extra. Entered as second-class matter May 21, 1936, at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879. Names of all characters used in stories and semi-flction articles are
fictitious. If the name of any living person or existing institution is used, it is a coincidence.
Manuscripts must be accompanied by self addressed, stamped envelopes, and are submitted at the author’s risk.
August, 1944, issue
Read our Companion Science Fiction Magazine—STARTLING STORIES
fiov a mm LESSON
Started Bill on the way to •
SUCCiSStNRADiOW
A Department Conducted by SERGEANT SATURN
R OLL up your sleeves and a fresh barrel
of Xeno, Frog-eyes. Before we seal
all ports we’ll take a brief squint at
the manifest and see what the chief pilot has
ordered stowed in the forward hold for future
fuel to run the good ship THRILLING WON¬
DER STORIES.
To forestall any impertinent questions
from you junior astrogators I hasten to state
that the old Sarge still gets Xeno in jugs also,
but there is a temporary shortage of the
fused quartz glass in the Plutonian bottle
works, and I had to switch over to the econ¬
omy or barbershop-size package.
Now, ere we get gassed in the slipstream or
rocket jets of the hard-riding Cossacks from
the out-lying planets—known better as kiwis
and junior pee-lots—we will consider a few
things to come, or what’s cooking in the
science-fiction pot.
LOOKING FORWARD
Loming ahead off the port bow, comes Fred-
ric Brown with a hilariously funny yarn-
crammed full of good science, too—about
an observatory and some interesting and im¬
possible stellar madness. PI IN THE SKY
you will find to be a well-constructed yarn
which packs a hearty laugh and a pay-off
punch that is terrific.
Just a bit further along the spaceways Ed
Weston is flagging us down with one of the
best space-mining yarns we have seen in
many a moon—and the old space dog has seen
a lot of satellites, planetary as well as Xenoan.
COSMIC CARAVAN will give you kiwis
something to thrill about before long.
You’ve likely already spotted the headliners
for next issue. If not, be advised that THE
ETERNAL NOW, by Murray Leinster, and
THE LAST MAN IN NEW YORK, by Paul
MacNamara, are up to the minute in first-
rate science and fantasy, while packing drama¬
tic wallops at the same time. And as we
rocket along around this sidereal year, every
now and then we’ll slip you a straight fantasy
like THE DEVIL’S FIDDLE, THE LOTOS
EATERS and THROUGH THE BLACK¬
BOARD for the sheer entertainment value
of the story itself.
Okay—or Roger—or Saturn. You space
yardbirds take it up from here. Open the
communications center. Wart-ears, and re¬
pack my ear-muffs with powdered aspirin.
Sunrise on a guinea farm is like sunset on a
Martian desert compared to the din which
will now arise in the astrogation chamber.
Well, what do you know! The first rabbit
out of the ethereal hat is a full-length por¬
trait of Sergeant Saturn as dreamed up by
Kiwi Joe Kennedy. It’s printed on this
page—so look at it for yourselves!
There will be a brief pause for static de¬
nouncements.
Joe, I’m sorry, but you don’t see elephants
through a Xenoan haze; you see eight-legged
quadrupeds flying in echelon formation and
doing the scarf dance with the Coal Sack.
And a Xeno jug is not fashioned like that.
But thanks for a good try. And thanks again
for reminding me about Xeno. Hey, Wart-
The first flash from the ether is from
an old friend.
TEMPUS FUGITS
By James V. Taurasi
It’s been quite awhile since I sat down and wrote
a letter on “the latest issue of TWS.” but what
with War Work and then the Army, I just didn’t
have time, though I've been reading your mags
right along and enjoying them greatly.
First a big kick: I do not like seeing Thrili.ino
Wonder Stories “quarterly”—I’d rather see Star¬
tling Stories combined with TWS for a monthly than
have both magazines quarterly!
Now for the Spring Issue of TWS : The Cover—
swell. You have a great artist in Bergey. He and
Belarski are two of the greatest artists I
E STF. (Don’t
:ick. They a
Here you have slipped now and then. This issue
is fair, but it doesn’t stand up on other issues.
(1st) Where is Wesso? Wesso is one of the best
artists of STF and for a time he was tops in your
magazine, then he ups and disappears! Why???
Bring Wesso back! You need him!
(2nd) Where is Schomberg?? You have him to
do work for your other mag, but not Wonder!
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THE GIANT RUNT
By ROSS ROCKLYNNE
Trapped Under an Impenetrable Dome > Hollywood Faces Colossal
Disaster as All Its People Descend into Smallness —with Only
Perry Wren to Direct Their Battle Against a Weird Blight!
CHAPTER I
Blackout
P ERRY WREN slid off the high stool
in the savings withdrawal window of
the Hollywood City Savings Bank,
and went back to the files. He checked the
signature on the withdrawal slip with the
signature in the files, and then climbed back
on his stool. He drew a sheaf of greasy bills
from the till. He counted them out expertly
and shoved them across the counter.
The young housewife accepted the money
with an unhappy expression. She had asked
Perry for nice, clean one-dollar bills. Perry
had told her there weren’t any more nice,
clean one-dollar bills. The government had
quit making nice, clean one-dollar bills. The
government was saving paper, along with the
rest of the folks.
Perry’s mournful, brooding blue eyes
watched the young housewife as she walked
away. He was estimating her height just as
he always estimated the height of everyone.
This girl, who symbolized the unreachable
AN AMAZING COMPLETE NOVEL
11
12 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
distances between him and all girls, between
him and all humankind, was five feet five.
Perry Wren was five feet. Period.
His next customer was a six-footer. The
next was five-feet eleven. The next was six
feet two. It went on that way, every day and
all day. He dreamed of yardsticks at night.
He would awaken in the morning, trembling.
In his sleep, he had stretched himself on a
rack until he was like other human beings—
until he could look other human beings in
the face and know that they didn’t detest
him because he was a runt. To awaken and
find himself still a runt was truly night¬
marish.
“Oh, Perry.”
The senior teller in the next booth beck¬
oned him abstractedly, without looking up
from some papers he was bending over.
Perry stared at his bent head for a sullen
moment, without answering. The senior
teller looked up, frowning slightly.
“Mind coming here for a moment—
please?” An irritated edge was on the last
word.
Perry slid off the stool with a bitter satis¬
faction. Sometimes people thought they
could order him around like a child.
“I’m going to have to ask you to stay a
few hours longer to do some audit work on
a few new accounts. Perry” the teller told
him. There was a cautious, uneasy polite¬
ness in his voice.
Perry was just dispirited enough to let his
temper get the best of him.
“Why don’t you pick on somebody else to
do after-hours work for a change?” he
snapped.
The senior teller carefully put down his
pencil. “Look, Perry,” he said coldly. “I’m
not picking on you. I never did pick on
you. I don’t know of anybody in this bank
that’s ever picked on you.” He stopped. A
baffled, puzzled expression grew on his face.
“Oh, for gosh sakes, Perry!” he exclaimed
helplessly. “Can’t you grow up? The only
reason I decided on you is because you’ve got
a good head for figures, and both of us can
finish up the work in record time.”
W1ERRY tightened the already beautifully
tied knot in his tie and turned away with
a scowl.
“You don’t have to bother flattering me,”
he said sulkily. “I’ll do it.”
The bank would close in fifteen minutes.
Perry went back to his window and bitterly
climbed onto his high chair.
At nine o’clock, Perry Wren was driving
his coupe eastward on Sunset Boulevard.
His mood was still sullen. Picked him be¬
cause he had a good head for figures—hah!
For the billionth time in his life, he passion¬
ately cursed the fate that had made him only
five feet tall. He had kept out of athletic
games of all kinds, any competition where
people might see what a runt he was.
He had shied away from girls, because he
believed they always laughed at him behind
his back, poked fun at him. He was friend¬
less and alone. Alone except for movies and
books. Books were his real companions. In
them he sought refuge. He had an education
that was encyclopedic, just from reading. He
knew Los Angeles, the city of his birth, as
if he himself had built it. He understood a
dozen sciences thoroughly, and had acquired
a smattering of a dozen others.
He was steeped in self-pity as he turned
south on Vermont Avenue. The tantalizing
image of Barry Fitz-Roy, the Tarzan-like,
six-foot-four movie actor, kept dancing in
front of his eyes. He never failed to see
Fitz-Roy’s pictures. If only he had those
broad shoulders, those smoothly-muscled
arms—if only he was as tall and manly as
Barry Fitz-Roy!
It was useless to dream. It was quite
impossible. He choked back a sob, and
vengefully rammed his foot down on the
accelerator. But his suicidal tendency was
lost when a fluctuating, highly disagreeable
siren scream ruptured the night.
Street lights began blinking off.
Blackout!
Perry quickly turned his car in to the curb
and parked. He sat there helplessly. There
was no place for him to go. He would have
to stay here until the all-clear sounded.
Fifteen minutes passed. The streets were
empty. The rush and roar of traffic had
ceased. Perry Wren forgot his misery long
enough to marvel at the precise system of
men and machinery which could cause a vast
spreading puddle of a metropolis like Los
Angeles to darken as if some winged monster
were sweeping overhead, sucking the light
away. And not only Los Angeles, but all of
southern California to the Arizona border.
By now, every visible light in the city
should be out.
Wren had parked his car on a side street
just off Vermont. There were empty lots on
either side, stretching in both directions to¬
ward both street intersections. There was
one building in the middle of the block, this
being a slatternly, condemned warehouse.
On the second floor of the warehouse, one
window was lighted.
Perry frowned. The air raid warden for
14 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
this block had overlooked that light. Perry’s
duty was plain.
He hurriedly left the car, went up weed-
grown stairs and tentatively tried the door.
It was warped to the door-jamb, but it came
open with some straining and panting. From
all indications, whoever was occupying this
warehouse must have been using some other
door.
He edged into the echoing, musty interior
and felt his way up a dusty stairs, guiding
himself by a swaying, creaking bannister.
Of course, he thought, this blackout would
be a false alarm, just like ,the others, or else
it had been planned for the express purpose
of loading troops aboard leaving transports,
under cover of darkness. But suppose the
danger was real? An enemy bomber would
need only that one square of brilliance as an
aiming point for his bombs.
On the second floor, light showed beneath
a door. A sense of adventure gripped him as
he edged the door open, stuck his head in
slowly. There were two rooms, the nearer
one lighted, the farther one dark. Light was
shining into the farther one, through the
window.
The lighted room showed a sharp contrast
to that part of the warehouse Perry had
come through. It was clean. There were
pictures on the walls. There was a mod¬
ernistic davenport against the right-hand
side of the room, chairs on the other. The
floor was rough, uncovered, however. The
farther side of the room was unfurnished,
apparently to make way for the tangle of
cables, of generators and transformers which
cluttered the floor.
In the corner of the room a man in a sooty
white smock bent over a solid, staunch-look¬
ing mass of machinery which was standing
on a pedestal. He was a stocky, dark, well-
fed man with a cockatoo crest of rich brown
hair standing on top of his otherwise hairless
head. Perry thought the man had a certain
physical resemblance to Claude Raines.
A floor-board creaked under Perry’s foot.
The occupant of the room turned with a
startled motion. His electric blue eyes held
Perry’s for a grim, wary instant. Then he
seemed to relax, though his voice was sharp
when he spoke.
“Who are you, lad? What d’you mean,
breaking into the workshop at this time of
night?”
ED-FACED, Perry flinched at the word
“lad.” His apologetic manner altered to
one of mortified anger. He made a stran¬
gling sound.
“I’m a grown man and not a ‘lad’,” he al¬
most yelled back.
“Who said you weren’t a grown man?”
The man blinked rapidly, grinned a little.
“You were kidding me about my size,”
Perry snarled. “I didn’t come up here to be
made fun of. There’s a blackout. You’ve
got the shade up in that other room.”
The other made a sudden, wry face. “Well,
hang it all, I’ve been waiting for a blackout!”
He turned, moved with a long, limping
stride into the darkened room. The window-
shade clippered down. The man came out,
hurriedly.
“You’re the new air raid warden for this
block?”
“No,” said Perry. “I just happened to be
stuck outside and I saw this light. I’ll get
out of your way now.”
“No! Whoa! Wait!” The man grabbed
Perry’s arm insistently. “Wait a minute, lad.
Pedestrians aren’t allowed in the streets dur¬
ing a blackout, are they?”
“No, of course not,” Perry admitted, mak¬
ing a feeble attempt to release himself.
The other beamed. “Stick around then,
lad—eh? Fine. Allow me to introduce my¬
self. Dr. Alex Fabricus. You’ve heard of
me, of course. Inventor of the Fabricus
audio, the Fabricus sound-track, the Fabri¬
cus dishwasher, the Fabricus onion-peeler,
and assorted lowly odds and ends. And
lately the Fabricus torpedo, the Fabricus
bomb-sight, the— Well, here, I’ll show you
my latest. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Perry Wren,” said Perry, and Fabricus
grabbed at his arm and pulled him toward
some machinery in the comer of the room.
Fabricus stood over the machine, rocking
back and forth on his heels in a pleased
fashion. Perry was vaguely miffed as the
scientist talked.
“Perry, my lad, this is the greatest defensive
weapon ever invented. A protective dome
or force shield over a designated area at the
flick of a switch. Yes, sir!” He pointed to
the gasoline generator on the floor. He
followed the hook-up through the transfor¬
mer and up to the slanting face of the in¬
strument board. “I’m not depending on city
power. When the dome goes up, city power
will be cut off from the enclosed area. Here’s
the heart of the machine—these tubes.” He
flicked a fingernail against a hexagonal bank
of de Forest tubes. “It generates the force-
dome, a force-dome which will be as solid
as one of metal. Neither Jap ships nor Jap
bombs will get through. Well, what d’you
think of it?”
He shot the question out abruptly, looking
THE GIANT RUNT 13
down at Perry in what Perry felt was a pat¬
ronizing manner.
Perry was impressed, both by Fabricus and
his machinery, but Fabricus’ attitude toward
him was not pleasing.
He shrugged. “I doubt if such a dome
could be thrown up,” he said stifly. “And
even if it could, there won’t be any Jap
planes. You can bank on that.”
“No?” said Fabricus, politely.
“No! They put these blackouts on for
practise.”
And, of course, it had to be then that the
first anti-aircraft guns sounded.
The building shook with a distant, pound¬
ing series of concussions. And then the
very world split—one long, rolling peal of
thunder that vibrated through Perry’s bones.
He whirled, held Fabricus’ eyes with grow¬
ing horror.
Fabricus’ mobile lips writhed in a chiding
grin.
“No?” he repeated. “That sounded like
a bomb. Come on, we’ll make certain first,
though.”
He led Perry up a rickety flight of stairs.
The scientist had hard going because he had
to favor his game leg. “My nephew owns
this building,” he panted. “He told me I
could use the second floor until the city tore
it down. I work as a research engineer for
one of the defense industries, lad. During
the day, that is. In the evenings and pretty
late in the night, I work here, isolated from
people’s homes. If something explodes, no¬
body’s hurt but me, see? Imagine it? An
actual air raid!”
They came out onto the roof. The scene
was one Perry would not soon forget. The
anti-aircraft guns were truly at work. West¬
ward, miles away, flak laced the sky with a
whitely furious, ever-changing pattern of
light. The sprawling black buildings of the
city were lighted in that pallor. Through
the growing clamor of the guns, Perry now
heard, distinctly, the tearing, racking roar
of falling bombs. Mushrooms of flame, star¬
tling and beautiful, grew and died away,
only to be replaced by others.
“The Japs are attacking America, the land
of the free and the home of the brave,” Perry
thought. “It can’t happen here.”
He watched with cold fascination. He
didn’t know that Fabricus had left his side.
Didn’t know until, abruptly, the sound of that
distant battle on the outskirts of Los Angeles
was cut away as if the knife of a guillotine
had fallen.
The sound was gone, but the changing
field of brilliance remained.
But directly overhead, along the whole
breadth of the sky, the moon, the very stars,
were dimmed, as if a subtle, obtruding cur¬
tain had been drawn across them.
T»EHIND him Fabricus chuckled. “You’ll
** hear no more guns or bombs now, lad.
The dome is up. Sound can’t get through.
Neither can bombs or planes.”
Perry was dizzy with relief and consterna¬
tion. “The dome works!”
“Perfectly. Nothing solid can get
through.” He made an irritated clicking
sound. “I couldn’t throw the dome over all
of Los Angeles,” he confessed. “Most of
the city is open to the enemy. But all of
Hollywood is enclosed for a radius of two
or three miles. Well, when the authorities
learn how I have guarded Hollywood, they
will most certainly assist me in building
larger machinery. In its way, this is only
a test.”
Words choked in Perry’s throat. Words
of thanksgiving. With such a dome as this,
the war was practically won. It could be
used to shield supply bases, airports, muni¬
tion dumps, convoy ships—almost every¬
thing.
He gripped Fabricus’ hand.
The battle was over almost as soon as it
had begun. The anti-aircraft guns ceased
their fire. Either the attacking force meant
to make only a brief, surprise foray, or they
had been beaten off by ground fire or de¬
fending coastal planes. Only two planes had
got as far as Hollywood. Perry had seen a
suddenly flowering light bursting in mid-air.
A second later, there had been another flash
of light—subtly different. Perry guessed
what had happened. The pilot of that plane
had dropped a bomb, which had exploded
against the dome.
The plane itself, driving on, had smashed
headlong into the dome.
At any rate, those few bombs that had
fallen couldn’t have done much harm to Los
Angeles proper. Most of them had certainly
fallen on the outskirts.
In Fabricus’ workshop some minutes later,
Perry saw that the dome-producing machin¬
ery was lighted strongly. The gasoline gen¬
erator was quietly chugging away. An al¬
most invisible stream of flame wavered be¬
tween two electrodes.
Fabricus flipped a tab. The machinery
died. Fabricus explained that neither water
nor electric power could get through to
Hollywood while the dome was up.
“The dome is down now, though, and out¬
side of some temporary inconveniences for
16 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
the people, things should be working smooth¬
ly again.”
Perry vaguely hoped that people who had
been using their gas burners, had been sen¬
sible enough to turn them off.
Fabricus looked shrewdly at Perry. “You
stay here tonight, lad,” he said energetically.
“They’ll keep the blackout on, anyway. And
I want to keep in touch with you. After all,
you’re my witness that the dome worked.”
They sat up for a couple hours longer.
Fabricus' did most of the talking, telling
Perry about his days with Edison, the Wiz¬
ard of Menlo Park. “It was I who gave
Edison the original idea for the talkies, but I
was young then and I didn’t push him ahead
with it, and besides, that was the year I
broke my knee-cap.”
Modesty itself, Perry thought.
He accepted Fabricus’ invitation to stay
over night. He didn’t bother to undress. He
lay on the davenport with a couple of blan¬
kets thrown over him. It had been an
exciting day—a triumphant day. He had
been in on the ground floor of an event that
would most certainly, sooner or later, change
the tide of war to total victory.
He drowsed. And as sleep claimed him,
he was bitter.
What did he, a five-foot runt, care about
anything, even a force-dome that kept out
Jap bombs, when he had an affliction medical
science could never erase? He went to sleep,
finding himself in a madly delightful dream
wherein he was Barry Fitz-Roy, racing
powerfully through African treetops with
his mate slung over his shoulder. . . .
Perry awoke in the morning, took one
look at his watch, and bounded to his feet
with a yelp. It was ten o’clock, and he was
an hour and a half late for work. His heart
sank. He ran from the room, forgetting
Fabricus, forgetting the events of the night
before. He came to the head of the stairs,
and stopped short. The rickety bannister
of the stairs had torn away from its moorings.
Lying at the foot of the stairs was a tattered
bundle of flesh. Fabricus!
In an instant. Perry was leaning over the
unconscious man, his throat constricted with
pity. Perry’s mind worked swiftly. He lifted
the man’s cold hand, tickled the palms. The
fingers flexed. He took off a shoe, ran his
finger over the tender part of the sole. There
was no muscular reaction. That meant a
broken back!
And how long had Fabricus been lying
here? It was evident that he had risen early,
and in the partial darkness, had lurched
against the bannister, and tumbled down the
stairs in the wreckage. Perry remembered
that Fabricus had limped slightly.
“To the devil with my job,” Perry thought.
He ran upstairs, grabbed every blanket he
could find. Tenderly, with infinite care, he
wrapped the chilled body of the inventor.
As an added measure he got coats, old rags,
everything he could find. Now for a doctor!
He ran from the building.
He stopped stock still, his face paling.
The street was swarming with people.
Naked people, with turkish towels, large
handkerchiefs or some similar concealing
cloth around their waists.
People? Midgets! Pixies—approximately
one foot tall!
CHAPTER II
The Giant Runt
^■TRANSFIXED, Perry absorbed the scene,
his mind drugged, refusing to believe.
For there was nothing that was believable
here. These midgets were yelling, screaming,
running back and forth across the street,
gathering into groups, chattering for a mo¬
ment, and then dispersing. They were ter¬
rified, horribly put out about something.
There were men, women and children
among the pygmies. The children were dolls
in their mothers’ arms, scarcely three inches
from head to toe. Some of the women were
draped in dresses, full-size women’s dresses,
which dragged out behind them.
One man was in the act of putting a hat
on his head. The hat went all the way down
to his hips. He snatched it off, a horrible
spasm of disbelief on his face. He ran for¬
ward with whimpering cries, came to the
curbstone, and like a man climbing from a
swimming pool, levered himself onto the
sidewalk.
Near him, licking its jowls, Perry saw a
crouching cat. The cat’s tail was moving
back and forth with quick little jerking mo¬
tions. Perry’s mouth opened in a cry of
horror as the cat pounced. For the cat was
a normal-sized cat, a huge, shaggy beast com¬
pared to the man.
The man screamed and went down.
But he was on his feet almost immediately.
He was screaming. He ran. He jumped
from the curb—a three-foot jump for him.
The cat let him go a certain distance, then
bounded lightly after him. The cat’s paw
reached out and sent the midget staggering.
Perry’s sluggish brain awoke to life—too
late. An excited canine barking, thundered
THE GIANT RUNT 17
down the narrow street. Perry saw a half-
dozen mongrel breeds coming pell-mell.
Tawny eyes blazed as tabby flicked away into
a vacant lot. The dog pack had not the cat
in mind, however. They bore down on the
naked midgets, tongues lolling. Naked
midgets, now, because the midgets ran, and
did not bother about such minor details as
holding onto their makeshift clothing.
They scuttled off in a spreading semi-circle
from the excited beasts. Whether or not
the dogs were acting in a spirit of play,
Perry Wren knew he had to do something
about it.
He darted into the street, into the path
of the barking animals. The foremost dog
was a mottled gray, with vicious little yellow
teeth. There was some terrier in him. He
was normal-size, which made him a giant
beast relative to the midgets. Perry was too
late to stop the horror that occurred. The
leader of the pack reached the midget who
had already been mishandled by the cat,
closed strong white jaws around him and
shook him. The dog then dropped its victim,
growled at Perry, and backed up.
Perry was white with rage. He flung him¬
self at the dog, caring nothing about him¬
self. The whole dog pack turned and
charged at full speed across the empty lot.
The street was entirely cleared of midgets.
Perry was shaking violently. Little specks
were dancing in front of his eyes. Something
hideous was happening—happening before
his eyes. He was insane. He must be insane.
And yet he had seen them. Pygmies! And
at his feet was what should be proof. The
pygmy who had been caught. He was bleed¬
ing, terribly. Bright red blood. Perry stooped,
and with fumbling fingers, lifted the limp
little body. He felt dazed. Behind him on
the floor of the warehouse, lay Fabricus,
dying perhaps. Here was a little midget,
possibly dying, also. They needed doctors.
They needed them right away.
In another second, still carrying the midget,
he was stumbling across the street, was slam¬
ming the door of his coupe behind him.
For the first block, the motions of the car
betrayed his own emotions. It careened
down the block, valuable tires screeching.
He got it under control and then pressed
the accelerator down to the floor boards.
There was a doctor’s shingle two blocks
ahead.
The streets swarmed with midgets, who
skittered out of his way, and then yelled after
him at the top of their voices. Perry got the
idea they were asking him to help them. He
felt ill.
Cooks stood on the stoves and stirred the stew-pots
18 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
He jammed on the brakes again and leaped
from the car with his midget burden. He
found momentary relief when he saw no
other midgets within a block. He clattered
up the stairs onto a porch. The doctor’s
door was open. Perry stepped in.
“Doctor!” No sound.
On the floor, Perry saw trousers, shoes,
shirts, silk stockings, silk underthings, a
dress, a halter. The garments lay there as if
they had simply fallen off the persons who
had worn them.
Perry thought it must have been particu¬
larly embarrassing for the woman.
It was obvious that there was no doctor
here. It was obvious that he wouldn’t find
a doctor. Doctors, along with everybody
else, were out on the streets, and probably
going crazy. But what about injured people
like this one? Perry looked down at the
pathetically limp little creature he held in his
fingers. His breath caught in his throat.
Injured? The midget’s eyes were open—
sightlessly. He was dead.
JpERRY quietly placed the midget form on
the davenport, and almost staggered from
the room.
He stood on the doorstep, his nails biting
into his palms. He was fighting with a re¬
membrance that had talons in it. Fabricus
had told him, “This is only a test.” A test!
Scientists should never put inventions to a
practical use until they had been laboratory
tested.
He raised his head toward the sky with a
tremendous effort. His nerves quivered and
his hope Sagged. Just as he had expected.
Stretched across the sky, shifting with
faint, beautifully tinted mother-of-pearl
colors, was a film. It extended from horizon
to horizon, that wondrously chromatic
blanket of light. The sun was dimmed, as
if one were looking at it through blue-
tinted sun-glasses. All the yellow was gone.
Fabricus had turned the machinery off.
But the force dome was still up!
Perry’s trembling hands buttoned his
double-breasted coat and then unbuttoned it
all over again. He was making a mighty ef¬
fort to pull himself together. Something had
happened that was beyond belief.
“But I mustn’t let it get me,” Perry thought
numbly. “There’s Fabricus. He’s probably
dying. He’s the only one that knows any¬
thing about this. I have to find a doctor.”
He knew, almost positively, what had hap¬
pened. Fabricus’ dome had protected Holly¬
wood, yes. But it had had a second effect,
an incredible effect, for the proof was all
around him. It had released a vibration, a
radiation—something, which had unaccount¬
ably reduced the people of Hollywood to the
size of midgets—small midgets at that. It
was no time for him to go to pieces. Later
on, of course, he probably would go crazy.
He had a job now.
He found no doctor. He stopped at shingle
after shingle. Homes were deserted. The
streets swarmed with maddening midgets,
trying to find out what had happened. There
were no policemen. Of course, their uni¬
forms were too big for them. Hollywood
was having a riot.
What was Perry Wren to do?
He was near the Ambassador Hotel, when
he heard a girl begin to scream. He turned
and saw a tiny girl, standing on a wall be¬
neath an arching acacia. Below her, on the
sidewalk, a wolflike chow dog was standing,
barking. As Perry watched, the chow leaped
through the air, its forelegs catching on the
edge of the wall. The midget girl, practically
naked save for a small Mexican serape tied
around her body, again screamed piercingly.
The dog burst into a vicious growl and
poised for another leap.
Perry left the car in a rush. He came to
a wary stop as the chow faced him.
“Get!” Perry bawled suddenly. “Go on.
Get!”
The chow crouched. Its wicked eyes nar¬
rowed. Perry kicked out frantically with one
leg, knocked the dog against the wall as it
leaped. By the time it came at him again,
he had his coat off. He wrapped the coat
around the creature’s head and hung on for
dear life. The dog grew more furious, its
legs lashing at mid-air. Perry lost his bal¬
ance and found himself in the gutter, the
dog on top.
It was strange how the human mind works
sometimes, he thought then, how one could
coolly reason even while death is snapping
at one’s throat. For Perry Wren found him¬
self wondering about that dog. The dome
had caused humans to shrink. Why hadn’t
it had a similar effect on animals? This chow
was full-size. The other dogs, and the cat
he had seen were full-size, too. Why hadn’t
they shrunk? The answer, of course, was
obvious. The animals simply had something
which protected them from size-reducing ra¬
diations. Or it was something they didn’t
have that humans did have.
A soul, maybe. But why, then, hadn’t he
and Fabricus shrunk?
He laughed inwardly at the thought—
laughed even as the chow ravened at his
throat. He was going insane, of course.
THE GIANT RUNT 19
Insane or not, he had to fight!
He kept to his original purpose, a purpose
that had been conceived in a second of
thought. He tied the coat sleeves around the
dog’s neck in a square knot. He threw the
dog away from him with a conclusive motion.
He left it to go mad in the street, trying
to disentangle itself from the coat. Shivering
with revulsion, Perry crossed to the little
midget girl on the wall. The wall was pitted,
rough. The dog must have been pursuing
her, and by a miracle she had climbed to
the top.
She was lying unconscious on the top,
and seemed in imminent danger of rolling off.
Perry swept her up, darted back to the car,
and drove furiously for a block before he
stopped. He felt foolish. There hadn’t been
anything to run from, really.
The half-clad midget girl stirred. She
moaned. She sat up and moaned faintly.
“It’s all right, miss,” Perry said hurriedly.
“He’s gone.”
VVER blue eyes focused slowly on him. She
started to cry. She swept her tumbled
mass of red-gold hair from her face.
“It’s been terrible,” she gasped. “Everything.
I was fixing my hair last night. It was just
after the blackout and I had candles burning
on the vanity. And all of a sudden I was only
a foot high and I was naked. I shrieked.
But everybody else was yelling, too. My land¬
lady came in to see if I was small the way
she was. Then she fainted. I had to take care
of her. I had to take care of that young man
in the front bedroom, too. I had to take
care of everybody. It was a crisis. I’d just
finished my advanced first-aid course, and I
couldn’t lose my head. I—I haven’t had
t-time to get hysterical myself, so now I’m
g-going t-to-let myself go! ”
“Hold it!” Perry snapped. “Miss—Miss
—Miss—?”
“Wilma Warren,” she supplied wearily.
“What there is of me.”
Perry was suddenly pleading. He told her
about the dome, about Fabricus, himself.
She nodded drowsily. “All right. Maybe
we can help him.” Her lower lip quivered.
“And just on the very day they wanted me
to come to the studio for a part in Barry Fitz¬
Roy’s new picture, this had to happen,” she
said mournfully. “I’d—just like to get—one—
break.” Her words dribbled away. She
was asleep.
At Wilshire and Vermont, Perry saw a
clamoring crowd of midgets in front of Col-
liver’s Shoe Store. The store was overflow¬
ing, too. It was a riot. Whatever display
had been in the windows was wrecked. Man¬
nequin feet had been broken, chromium racks
upended, shoes scattered. Inside, tissue pa¬
per and boxes littered the floor, were
trampled on by a hundred tiny feet. Midgets
hung on the shelves swarming like ants, pull¬
ing down whole stacks of boxes.
A fat-bellied midget holding a turkish
towel around his waist ran in front of the
car, his face frantic.
“Get out of my way,” Perry yelled. “It’s
a matter of life and death!”
“This is a matter of my shoe-store!” the
midget screamed, jumping on the running
board. “I’m Mr. Colliver. I opened my store
this morning. I wanted to serve the citizens
during this terrible crisis. My son stood on
my shoulders and put the key in the lock
and opened the door. Then the people began
to raid my establishment. They’re stealing
all my baby shoes. I’ll be ruined. Please,
please, you have to help me!”
Perry had a sudden thought.
“Okay,” he snapped. “I’ll see what I can
do.” He left Wilma Warren in the car,
asleep.
The little man ran excitedly ahead, his
naked stomach wabbling. “Here, you! Here,
you people! I got a full-size human to help
me. Clear out now.”
The crowd didn’t pay any attention until
Perry forced his way into the shoe store.
Men and women turned with startled mo¬
tions, screamed when they saw Perry’s tow¬
ering figure.
“What do you people mean by rioting like
this?” Perry demanded.
“A full-size human,” a man cried.
Perry was shaken. Full-size! He kept his
menacing expression, however.
“We didn’t break any law,” a midget wom¬
an at last said in shrill tones. “If you want
to know who broke the law, it’s that Colliver.
The Japs dropped a size-reducing bomb last
night.”
Perry interposed.
“Wait a minute!”
His brain was suddenly whirling. A terrible
event > had occurred. Panic and death and
mayhem and riot were at this moment sweep¬
ing the city. Dogs and cats were roaming the
streets, suddenly wild and vicious in the ap¬
parent absence of their human masters. Rats
were comparatively huge beasts, probably
menacing children and adults alike. Thou¬
sands of these midgets were literally home¬
less. For, to them, climbing a flight of stairs
was a triumph of effort. Five flights would
be impossible. Elevators, of course, would
not work in the absence of electricity. Food
20 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
could not be cooked, even if these midgets
could effectively use their huge kitchens.
The full horror of the catastrophe struck
Perry as his mind caught at the tragic limita¬
tions the size of these people imposed on
them. They were without clothing or means
of transportation.
They were savages, set into an alien en¬
vironment by a frightening reduction in size.
They were helpless. They had raved and
screamed and gone mad for awhile—during
the night, probably, while Perry was sleeping
—and at first opportunity of hinging them¬
selves onto reality, they were grabbing at it.
Already, they had invented a size-reducing
bomb which the Japs had dropped.
Already they were clothing their naked
feet, in an attempt to feel normal. Of course,
they were stealing, but if they had the real
facts, it might help.
And suddenly Perry was talking, telling
them the whole story.
When he finished, a woman quietly fainted.
Then everything was hubbub.
“But you’re normal size. This—Fabricus
is normal size. Cats and dogs are normal.”
T)ERRY squirmed helplessly. “I don’t
know the answers. Only Fabricus knows
them. All I can tell you is that Hollywood
is completely cut away from the world. And
I think that as soon as the dome is destroyed
you’ll return to normal.”
“You’re sure of that?” demanded one
midget quickly.
“Well, reasonably,” Perry answered.
“Because it’s a relief to know we don’t
have to stay this way very long.” The man
ran his wrist over his perspiring forehead.
His tense face relaxed.
“Now, wait a minute,” Perry said hastily.
“I wasn’t saying—” Then he stopped. Let
them believe what they would. The more
optimistic they were, the less panic there’d
be. He drew a deep, nervous breath.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. The
main thing, I guess, is that we’ll all have to
remember that law and order must be kept.
I don’t want to butt in—” he was apologetic
“—but rioting, stealing shoes must stop.”
The midgets started yelling and screaming.
They were back where they’d started.
“It’s that Colliver!” the midget woman
who had first spoken said wrathfully. “He
tried to charge us three times the retail price
for baby shoes. He’s the one that broke the
law. Hasn’t he ever heard of a ceiling price?”
Perry gulped and felt like a dupe.
“Oh!” He turned. “Bring Mr. Colliver in
here, please,” he snapped.
After a minute, the red-faced store owner
stood below him. Perry felt sorry for him.
“Nobody must profiteer at times like these,
sir,” Perry said kindly. “This is a crisis. Will
you agree to sell these shoes at the retail
price?”
Colliver was pathetically eager to make
amends.
“One ninety-eight, two ninety-eight, three
ninety-eight. And you won’t find a better
bargain in town.”
Perry grinned, suddenly pleased with him¬
self. “Okay! Now everybody line up and
buy your shoes like ladies and gentlemen.
But first I’d like some doctors, if there are
any, who’ll volunteer to help me with Fabri-
Perry soon cradled four midget doctors in
his arms, but before he could leave the store
one of the little men tugged at the cuff of his
smudged trousers.
“Hey, wait a minute. You can’t go off
like this. Aren’t you going to help us? Tell
us your name.”
“Oh, my name’s Perry Wren.” Perry was
apologetic, but inside a sharp premonition
was growing, a frightening premonition. “I
have to go, now,” he said hastily. “I can’t
help you any more.”
“I don’t mean you have to help us, sir.”
The midget was earnestly beseeching. “I
mean, all the people. The whole city. Some¬
body has to tell us what to do, how to go
about getting drinking water and food and
clothes and things like that. It can’t be one
of us little people, can it, sir?”
The rest of the midgets suddenly under¬
stood what their fellow was driving at. They
started to cry Perry Wren’s name.
“You’re the only able-bodied full-size hu¬
man being in Hollywood,” the midget cried
excitedly. “That is, not counting Fabricus.
But he’s sick and so that leaves you.”
Perry felt a cold trip-hammer start pound¬
ing at the base of his skull.
“Sure, that leaves me,” he echoed hoarsely.
“But I’m not fitted. I can’t take charge.”
They drowned out his words with their
cries. Suddenly all the anxiety that had been
on their faces was gone. They were laughing
and shouting and giggling. They were
amused by their predicament, now that they
had a champion to fight their battles. He
would lead them from the maze.
Full-size. The only full-size human in
Hollywood. The mad, ironic words
thrummed in Perry Wren’s ears. A sound¬
less, hysterical laugh came to his lips. Wait
until they had oriented themselves. Wait
until they found out that he wasn’t full-size
21
THE GIANT RUNT
at all, but just a five-foot runt!
Suddenly he uttered a hoarse, barely au¬
dible cry, and charged from Colliver’s shoe-
store toward the car. His midget doctors
clung in terror to his coat-sleeves.
But somehow he wasn’t up to feeling sorry
for himself for his pitiful height. In his
mind there was a pounding, triumphant din.
He had come into his own.
He was a giant—in a city of runts!
CHAPTER III
Barry Fitz-Roy
COON the station wagon drew to a gentle
stop in front of the flower-bordered path¬
way of the Presbyterian Hospital on Ver¬
mont. Perry Wren got out, threw open the
rear doors, gently lifted Fabricus’ splinted,
blanketed body. He started down the path
and into the hospital.
“Handle him carefuly,” one of the doctors
begged. “Might be a pneumonia complica-
“All I know is, he can’t die.” Perry mut¬
tered a trifle wildly. “He’s the only one who
can destroy the dome.”
Fabricus was splinted crudely with thin
boards Perry had torn from the walls of the
warehouse. He had found the station wagon
down the street, its ignition keys in the lock.
It made a good emergency ambulance.
Perry went staggering up the marble stairs
to the second floor where the private rooms
were. He looked behind briefly, saw Wilma
and the doctors hoisting themselves up the
waist-high steps. Wilma was only on the
third step. One of the doctors was reaching
down, and giving her a hand. She got up to
the fourth step and sat down weakly, panting.
Perry kicked open a pair of glass doors,
went edging down a corridor.. There was a
terrible silence here. He saw no nurses.
He opened another door. A few midgets
were idly standing around, wrapped in huge
sheets, faces stunned, blank. They were pa¬
tients and probably shouldn’t have been out
of bed.
From the end of the corridor, Perry heard
a sobbing, rasping scream that sent shivers
to the marrow of his bones.
Lying half in and half out of the door was
a midget who was entirely naked, save for
loose bandages around his limbs and head.
He was unconscious.
Perry pushed open hip-high swinging
doors, and gently deposited Fabricus on the
bed. He stood for a tense moment, looking
down at the scientist. And suddenly Fabricus
moaned. His eyes slowly opened. For a long
moment, he met Perry’s glance. His lips
opened. Perry got hold of himself.
“Don’t talk, sir,” he begged. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right,” Fabricus gasped weakly.
“Something’s wrong. Something’s haywire.
I heard you talking in the station wagon—
something about the dome—about midgets.”
His eyes grew .wild.
“Tell me,” he rasped. “Everything. Before
I go off again. I might be able to—help.”
Perry could see muscles straining in his
thick neck as he tried to get up.
“Don’t sir!” he snapped. “I’ll—I’ll tell
you.”
He poured out the story.
Fabricus’ expression was bitter.
“The trans-static currents,” he whispered.
“They’re drawing energy directly from
Earth’s magnetic field, and the dome is
maintaining itself. It will maintain itself
forever unless something is done to destroy
it. Lad, the dome must be destroyed. Only
in that way will the people regain their
normal height.”
Fabricus’ head dropped back to the pillow.
“I should have seen it,” his faint voice
[Turn page]
22 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
whispered. “I was a fool! The dome is creat¬
ing a secondary stressfield, which is acting
on the electronic orbits of people’s bodies,
keeps them reduced in proportions. When
the dome goes, the people will regain their
normal sizes.”
“But—but how?” Perry stammered. There
was no answer. Fabricus’ eyes were closed.
He was again unconscious, his face an un¬
pleasant white.
Perry clattered back to the stairs, scooped
up the four doctors and the girl on the fifth
from the last step, and took them to Fabricus’
room.
Before he left, he took a chair, a small foot¬
stool, and some books and built an easily
navigable staircase from the floor to Fabri¬
cus’ bed.
Now they could climb up and down.
Perry knew the main necessity was hot
water bottles. He ran into the corridor, his
brain whirling. Midgets. They were help¬
less. They’d all die. And Perry was the
only “normal-size” man in the city
In the course of the next half-hour, he did
find hot water bottles—only to discover there
was no water.
But if he failed there, he was notably suc¬
cessful in the way he geared the disorganized
staff to some sense of routine. In the cor¬
ridor, he found the superintendent of the hos¬
pital—a dark mustached little pygmy—and
some nurses, frantically urging patients to
get back in their beds.
The superintendent had a face towel
fastened around his waist with a paper clip.
The nurses had each used two nurses’ caps
to clothe themselves.
They had punched holes in the crowns.
One cap fitted snugly and concealingly
around their hips; the other fitted just as
snugly below their shoulders.
Perry had no choice but to help lift patients
back into their beds. Meanwhile, the super¬
intendent talked. Last night, his whole staff,
his patients — everybody — had collapsed in
size. Bandages, traction splints, operating
instruments had become impossibly large.
Patients died on the operating table when
midget nurses and doctors fainted or ran
screaming. Hospital employes of all kinds,
orderlies, internes, nurses, doctors disap¬
peared, fled. The present staff of the hospital
included a dozen night nurses, and a half
dozen doctors—pitifully inadequate.
r M , HE patients needed food. There was one
cook who had kept her senses. But she
was too small to reach the stoves or the food.
And, besides, there wasn’t any gas.
Perry found himself involved in perform¬
ing countless tasks. Nurses couldn’t reach
shelves for various medicines or instruments
or gauze, and Perry handed such things down
to them. He lifted nurses onto beds so they
could take temperatures. After awhile, he
realized he was wasting his time. He ignored
the demands made on him. He got the
superintendent to one side, and bluntly an¬
nounced that if they wanted to, they could
help themselves. Perry had other things
to do.
They could build “stairs” out of books,
boxes, chairs. This would enable them to
reach shelves and patients with a minimum
of effort and time. If the superintendent
were smart, he’d instruct his nurses and
doctors to use the dummy elevator up and
down between floors. Five or six of them,
heaving on the rope, could make the eleva¬
tor move up and down.
Since the regular stairway took fifteen or
twenty exhausting minutes to navigate, they
could use books on the stairways to decrease
the height of the steps.
“Delegate some of your help to gather dis¬
carded wood from empty lots nearby or from
Barnsdale park. Build wood fires in your
kitchen, if the flues will clear the smoke.”
“But I haven’t enough help.”
“I’ll see that you have help. And water.”
The sluggish cogs in Perry’s brain, so long
out of gear, so long in the habit of avoiding
responsibility, were forced to mesh.
He saw with a cold, horrible clarity that
in spite of his innermost convictions of help¬
lessness, an incredibly complex, and perhap
impossible job had been dumped in his lap.
He was the only “normal-size” man available.
This wasn’t a case where you could reject
the nomination. The peculiar workings of
fate had already elected him. Perry was un¬
avoidably, inescapably—it!
And as his mind accepted the inevitable
it began to swarm with ideas. Water? Very
well. Next to the hospital was Fire Station
No. 35!
In the fire station no firemen remained.
Apparently they had deserted their posts
after becoming reduced in size. No matter.
Perry knew that the single fire engine here
was a pumper. He walked excitedly around
the machine, touching lovingly at the self-
priming booster pump—a booster-pump that
held three-hundred and fifty gallons of pure
water. Here was water enough to last the
hospital a week, at least.
He was elatedly coupling two hose sections
together, and these to the hose already fast¬
ened to the ejection valve in the face of the
THE GIANT RUNT 23
tank when he heard a sound behind him.
He turned around to find a midget coolly re¬
garding him.
“You’re Perry Wren, aren’t you?” the
midget demanded.
Perry gaped. “How’d you know that?”
“Everybody knows it by this time, old man.
Grapevine. You’re the new mayor of Holly¬
wood, and you’re going to save everybody.”
The midget laughed. “But that’s neither
here nor there. I can’t drive a car. I’m too
little. How about you driving me to the
Blannery Brothers motion pictures lot on
Van Ness—quicklike?”
He wriggled a ten-dollar bill longer than
his forearm.
Thrills of recognition started wriggling in
Perry’s brain. The one-foot toy human was
naked, save for a huge bandanna handker¬
chief, tied Tarzan-fashion, around a bronzed,
smoothly-muscled body.
Perry flushed the deep, startling red of a
schoolboy unexpectedly meeting his hero.
“Barry Fitz-Roy!”
Barry Fitz-Roy it was, as strikingly god¬
like, in miniature, as the jungle epics sweep¬
ing the nation had portrayed him.
Fitz-Roy’s porcelain-tipped teeth flashed in
a blindingly Tarzan-like smile.
“Righto!” he answered. He added, in a
low-pitched voice which must have carried all
the way to the other side of the street. “Don’t
say my name too loud, though. It’s beastly
annoying for people to know I’m Barry Fitz¬
Roy, you know. Barry Fitz-Roy is a sort of
god to most people. But I’d give anything
to be just an ordinary human being.”
“Of course,” Perry jerked out, bug-eyed.
“You shouldn’t have dressed in that Tarzan
costume though, Mr. Fitz-Roy. People will
recognize you a mile away.
Fitz-Roy colored unaccountably. “Of
course,” he said hastily. “I’m so much like
Tarzan physically, I suppose I’m getting into
the habit of thinking like Tarzan.” He smiled
modestly.
Outside on the street, there was a growing
clamor. A crowd of midgets had gathered.
They were turned toward the fire station.
Now they came scampering closer.
“Here they come,” said Barry Fitz-Roy.
“This hero-worship is terrible.”
But strangely enough, the midgets entirely
ignored Fitz-Roy. They shouted Perry’s
name excitedly. Completely amazed, Perry
looked them over. It was almost eerie the
way his name had traveled around the city.
Everybody seemed to know him.
“Please sir,” pleaded a middle-aged woman.
She held a toy baby in her arms.
■PERRY had never seen anything so pink
and delicate. The baby was adequately
wrapped in a beach towel. In fact, Perry
thought with a surge of relief, clothing didn’t
really present a big problem.
These midgets were not what you might
call tastefully or completely garbed, but in
a situation like this, conventions would have
to be thrown aside.
Some of the midgets were wearing baby
shoes. Most of them were barefoot. Some
of the men had donned baby-dresses, using
them as sweaters. But most of the men had
merely tied a piece of cloth Hindu-fashion
around their waists. The women might have
been taken from a photogravure section
showing a group of South Sea Islanders.
After the first shock of their size-reduction,
they had wrapped large-size, colorful men’s
handkerchiefs tightly around their waists,
forming skirts. They had similarly covered
their upper torsos.
“Please, sir,” the woman quavered unhap¬
pily. “We know how busy you must be, get¬
ting all the hospitals to working again, but
we’ve got to have help.”
Perry ignored the rather huge activities
ascribed to him, staring with sudden pity.
The woman’s eyes were blurred with tears.
A man took the woman’s arm consolingly.
“Martha’s upset—and thirsty, Perry,” he said
gravely. “In fact, we’re all pretty much upset.
We’ve got food, plenty of that for awhile, I
guess. What I mean is, food is distributed
pretty equally from one side of the dome to
the other. Water is different. It’s not dis¬
tributed. They say electric power isn’t com¬
ing through the dome, and so the pumps at
Silver Lake Reservoir aren’t pumping water
into the mains. All the water is located
either there or in Echo Lake or MacArthur
Lake. There are a lot of people in Holly¬
wood, Perry, and it’s going to be too bad
when they all congregate around those lakes
and crowd up and start drinking impure
water and start fighting each other for water
when the lakes start to run dry. We were
just now on our way to MacArthur Lake.
We’re all pretty thirsty, especially the chil¬
dren.”
He stopped.
He and the growing crowd behind him
watched Perry hopefully.
“Now,” Perry thought, “they’re expect¬
ing me to pull a rabbit out of the hat.
They don’t know I can’t do it. All they know
is that I’m a giant and they’re runts and
they’re helpless and I’m not.”
He understood the problem that had been
thrown in his lap. If water were not prop-
24 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
erly distributed, the population would be con¬
centrated around the only water sources
there were. Which would mean disease and
fighting. Then, also, the food in the city
would be badly distributed, for the food,
located in super-markets, in grocery stores,
in warehouses, was distributed well only so
long as the population was spread out and
not bunched up.
In order to keep the people of Hollywood
reasonably safe from the mob spirit that in¬
fects human beings during a crisis, an effi¬
cient method of water-distribution would
have to be found.
Perry inspected the crowd. He could feel
the heavy weight of this new responsibility.
“I’ll see that the water is distributed,” he
said.
His own voice sounded unreal, faraway,
as if he hadn’t said the words.
After he had made this promise, a sensa¬
tion of horror swept over him. While seek¬
ing to prevent what might well have resulted
in death and destruction, Perry had made a
pledge he knew was quite impossible to keep.
His lips opened and closed as the crowd
watched him. He gave out no further infor¬
mation.
“Here,” he said. “Some of you lend a
hand.”
They assisted him willingly, eagerly. A
half dozen of them grabbed at the hose and
began pulling it to the street. Perry led them
into the hospital, and back to the kitchens.
Here, he made a great clatter, routing out
every stewing pot and empty Crisco tin,
every container of all sizes and description
that he could find. A cold haste took hold
of him. Fabricus should be his main con¬
cern, now. Maybe if Fabricus regained con¬
sciousness sufficiently in the next day or so,
Perry could talk with him and find out how
to destroy the dome. Then the numerous
torturing problems that had suddenly con¬
fronted Perry, would not need to be solved.
Perry handed the nozzle of the hose over
to the most capable-looking midget of the
lot, told him what to do, and then ran back
to the fire-station. Barry Fitz-Roy had
climbed to the seat of a chair, and was sitting
with his knees drawn up, a sullen, impatient
expression on his face. He jumped to his
feet as Perry weaved through the other
midgets.
“Say!” he snapped. “I asked you to take
me to the Blannery Brothers lot, didn’t I.”
Hurriedly Perry fiddled with the pressure-
control on the slanting instrument board of
the booster-pump.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fitz-Roy,” he stammered.
“I’m too busy.”
“Are you serious?” Fitz-Roy was sarcastic.
“They’re making the biggest Tarzan picture
of the decade out at the lot.”
Perry stared. “But they can’t make pic¬
tures. All electric power is off.”
JpffTZ-ROY then spoke with dignity, and
as if that were plenty of explanation.
“Miracle Man Maeberle is my producer” He
frowned and looked at Perry Wren covertly.
“Still, I guess maybe even Maeberle has his
limits. Maybe even he isn’t miracle man
enough to keep working under conditions
like these. I’ll tell you what. I think I’ll
tag along with you, Wren. Looks as if
you’re going to have this city by the tail
before long.”
Perry looked at him blankly. “Yeah?” He
shuddered. At that moment, he felt he would
rather have a tiger by the tail.
He climbed behind the wheel of the big
pumper and turned on the ignition switch.
He kicked the motor into roaring life, raced
it, and then settled it down to a steady
pounding. He flipped a tab, and the booster-
pump went into action.
Dozens of gallons of pure water went
shooting through the hose, into the hospital
kitchen, into the containers waiting there.
A midget came darting out of the hospital,
waving his arms. Perry hastily shut off the
engine.
In another five minutes, he had found a
nurse who showed him where the hot water
bottles were kept. She led him to the supply
rooms on the second floor. Perry noted with
pleasure that the superintendent had fol¬
lowed Perry’s advice. “Stairs,” made of
books, boxes, and chairs, made each shelf
easily accessible.
In the kitchen, he worked hurriedly. There
were two cooks busy, who were standing on
the stoves, stirring comparatively huge
wooden spoons around in those stew pots
Perry had not commandeered for water.
Wood fires were burning in the pits of the
gas-stoves where “spiders,” now useless, had
been. The smoke was wavering successfully
toward the open type of flue used in Cal¬
ifornia.
Perry hurriedly heated some water, filled
his hot water bottles. A terrific urgency had
grown in him, a need to talk over his
mountainous troubles with someone. Wilma
Warren, the tiny, golden-haired movie extra
whose life he had saved, seemed ideal for the
purpose. She would certainly be able to
offer him suggestions. Besides, there was
something about her, a wonderful, pulse-
THE GIANT RUNT 25
hammering femininity, which stirred in
Perry emotions long suppressed.
In Fabricus’ room, the doctors accepted
the hot-water bottles gratefully. They tried
to lift them, but found it impossible. Under
their direction, Perry placed the bottles be¬
tween the blankets in which Fabricus was
so heavily swathed.
Perry watched the dead white face of
Fabricus with a sick anxiety. If it was really
pneumonia, Fabricus might die. Or, at the
very least, would not be well enough to speak
for more than a week.
Wilma was not in the room. Perry went
into the corridor, and suddenly heard her
voice. He turned the corner eagerly. He
stopped dead. Wilma and Barry Fitz-Roy
were earnestly engaged in conversation. Wil¬
ma’s long-lashed eyes were sparkling, but she
was blushing, too.
She saw Perry. She excitedly raised her
arms, wriggling her fingers in an imperative
gesture. Perry obediently lifted her, put her
on a luncheon cart.
“Perry!” she squealed. “Mr. Fitz-Roy is
going to get me a real part in pictures!”
Fitz-Roy’s tiny chest swelled. “Who
knows? Some day, she might have the good
fortune to play the lead opposite me.”
Perry felt hollow. “That would be won¬
derful,” he said. He licked dry lips. “I was
wondering, Wilma, if we couldn’t talk over
some problems. I’ve promised the people
certain things.”
“You want me to help you?” She laughed.
“What could I do. Perry? You shouldn’t
have any trouble, since you’re the only nor¬
mal-size person in the city.”
“Normal-size?” said Perry, very politely.
“Young lady, maybe you’d like to know the
truth.”
But suddenly he couldn’t tell her. He was
suddenly humble before her. She was a
doll-like creature, with skin that was golden-
brown, with the full, tender lips of a thor¬
oughly feminine being. He couldn’t very
well blame her for wanting to get into the
movies when she had the chance. He
couldn’t blame her for being attracted to
Fitz-Roy, either, or for thinking he didn’t
need help. She trusted him, ascribed to him
the powers of a miracle man. Just as other
midgets coming to trust him—unduly.
Wilma turned and was deep in conversa¬
tion with Barry Fitz-Roy even before Perry
could go through the formality of excusing
himself. He left, vaguely perturbed. He
didn’t know why the sight of Wilma so inter¬
ested in Barry should make him bitterly
depressed, but it did.
He moved slowly down the hospital corri¬
dor. He was vaguely aware that the hos¬
pital was functioning more efficiently, was
less helpless, as if the presence of water had
lubricated it. But there was still a distinct
lack of hospital employes. How would Perry
get them back on the job? It was impos¬
sible. The job was hopeless. He’d do better
to curl up and die!
And how would he distribute water as he
had promised? It would be sheer nonsense
to try emptying the booster-pump of every
fire engine in the city.
Fire engines? Perry stopped stock still as
the idea burst within him. His face was
suddenly transfigured. Why hadn’t he
thought of that before? Miles upon miles
of firehose would become the new water-
mains of Hollywood!
And as if the solution to that problem be¬
came the trigger which released the solution
to others. Perry Wren was ablaze with en¬
thusiasm. Not only did he know how to dis¬
tribute water, he knew how vital workers
could be got back to their jobs! He snapped
his fingers in gleeful triumph.
He left the hospital in a full gallop, ran to
the middle of the street. He yelled at the
top of his voice, drawing midgets toward
him from both nearby street intersections.
They gathered around him, crying his name.
Perry waited until no less than two hundred
midgets surrounded him, before speaking.
CHAPTER IV
Perry Organizes a City
JT WOULD be as pointless and boring as
it would be endless to recount in detail
the historic epic of Perry Wren’s mighty
achievement in organizing the citizens of
Hollywood, the trapped city, into various
endeavors which would prolong the life of
its desperate population. He had much to
work with at the start. The cooperation he
received was automatic and wholehearted,
and there was no opposition to him as he
poured his energies into the task.
No opposition, but much drama! There
is drama in a panic-stricken city of people
suddenly learning that a guide has come to
lead them out of situations which they had
believed to be hopeless. There is drama in
nurses, doctors, internes, all kinds of hos¬
pital workers, firemen, policemen, drug-store
owners, grocery store owners and clerks, re¬
turning to their jobs, to their places of busi-
26 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
ness, in answer to the shouted pleas of the
Town Criers.
Town Criers? They were the first step
Perry Wren made toward organization.
There were two hundred Town Criers dele¬
gated by Perry Wren to carry messages of
general or specific importance. Those two
hundred Town Criers were the new com¬
munication system of Hollywood, and Perry
was the source of all communication.
Essential workers went back to their jobs.
Air raid wardens patrolled their blocks, not¬
ing accidents, helping the sick and feeble,
preventing or extinguishing fires. Custom¬
ers used their children’s toy wagons or
wheelbarrows to carry food, when, a few
short hours after those Town Criers spread
through the city, grocery stores, food-mar¬
kets, butcher shops were opened for business.
Clerks stood on cash registers, and rang
up totals by striking keys with mighty blows.
Drug store clerks built ladders of boxes,
and purveyed their wares by wrestling man¬
fully with boxes and bottles as big and as
heavy as themselves.
Ten-cent stores, being for the most part
stairless, were opened. Women rushed to
buy doll dresses.
Those women who owned the old-type
treadle sewing machine made their own
dresses with the help of neighbors—one
neighbor, or a couple, to work the treadle
up and down.
By evening, and in response to Perry
Wren’s suggestion, distributed through town
by means of his Town Criers, midgets had
organized “pulley-bucket” systems which en¬
abled them to hoist themselves up to second,
third, fourth floor apartments. To navigate
three or four flights of stairs, was a job for
only the most tireless.
This, however, is only part of the picture.
In the two days that followed, Perry Wren
became linked with red-painted fire-wagons,
roaring thunderously down the streets, midg¬
et firemen hanging onto the running boards.
Those midgets laboriously tumbled thou¬
sands of feet of two-and-one-half-inch fire¬
hose from the truck as Perry put on the
brakes. And as the truck went roaring up
the boulevard, it laid a ribbon of hose be¬
hind it.
Those ribbons of hose became the new
water mains of Hollywood. They trailed in
profusion down from the mountains around
Silver Lake Reservoir. They curled away
from three laboring pumpers on the lake
shores, where eucalyptus and weeping wil¬
lows stand. Here and there, at intervals of
seven-hundred-fifty feet, the gushing water
passed through another gushing booster
pump. Friction losses made it necessary to
give the water another shove, though it was
going downhill.
The swimming pool of the Hollywood
High School at Highland and Selma was
filled, purified with chlorine. Perry appoint¬
ed midgets to distribute the water to their
fellows who lived in this area.
Other swimming pools were similarly filled,
similarly purified.
Where such pools could not be found.
Perry set lip water-stations at certain street
intersections. Water was boiled over wood-
fires in the middle of the street, fires which
had their own caretakers, who were to keep
the fires under rigorous control.
At the end of those two days, fifty pumpers
were distributed through the city, part of a
vast relay system which boosted water all
the way from Echo and MacArthur Parks,
and Silver Lake Reservoir.
At these water sources, midget firemen
kept constant watch over their chugging
pumpers, at times diving beneath the sur¬
face, cautiously clearing the gratings at the
ends of the intake tubes of weeds which
might have clogged them. In this way a
steady intake of water, was provided.
Also, they kept the engines’ gasoline tanks
filled. There were hundreds of automobiles
in the vicinity — unusuable automobiles.
Groups of midgets siphoned gasoline from
these, and fed the pumpers. Perry had had
no trouble procuring cooperation, and in the
back of his mind he experienced profound
amazement when he discovered he could ob¬
tain it. Midgets volunteered their services
by the hundreds. The problem was merely
to give them all something to do. Before
Perry realized it, a whole new governmental
system had grown up around him.
There was the Gasoline Corps, which kept
the relay pumpers supplied. There must
have been a thousand midgets composing
this group, which was, in turn, split up into
smaller groups, each group supplying one
pumper. Each group was presided over by
an experienced fireman, who was answerable
to Perry Wren.
There was the Water Supply Corps, sim¬
ilarly subdivided.
,%IR raid wardens and policemen com¬
prised other groups. Whatever organi¬
zations they had had before the catastrophe
was not in existence, and the heads of the
groups into which Perry divided them re¬
ported to Perry.
Perry had found a half-dozen telegraph
THE GIANT RUNT 27
men whom he promptly labeled his Signal
Corps. He put these men at six different
places at the wall of the dome, gave them
ten-cent store hammers—from Woolworth’s,
which was now operating with a certain de¬
gree of efficiency—and told them to start
signaling in Morse code to the outside world.
Perry had long since determined the boun¬
daries of this strange new world. The dome
which Fabricus had created enclosed a cir¬
cular section of Los Angeles: Santa Barbara
Boulevard to the south, Wilshire Boulevard
and Burnside Street to the west, Vermont
and Franklin Avenues to the north, the
Union Depot to the east.
The circular wall of the dome was as solid,
as opaque, as if it were made of some actual
substance. It disappeared into the ground,
and arched high overhead, slowly losing its
opacity, becoming translucent, and then
abruptly giving way to the almost completely
transparent mother-of-pearl film Perry had
noticed before.
So far, there had been absolutely no con¬
tact of any kind with the outside world.
The dome was certainly miles high, and if
airplanes flew overhead, they were invisible.
Nor could Perry’s Signal Corps establish
contact with the outside world. The wall
against which they tapped out their messages
seemed to have no elasticity, no capacity for
vibration. It was hard, without temperature,
and hardly imparted sensation. Whether
the wall was thin or thick could not be dis¬
covered.
BP UT Perry’s Signal Corps did note a
strange fact. The wall moved back and
forth, smoothly but unrhythmically, over a
distance of six inches, like a pulsing, palpi¬
tating rubber balloon.
“You’re sure of that?” Perry demanded
incredulously of the Signal Corps man who
called it to his attention. “But why should
it move in such a fashion.”
The man shrugged. “It does move, though.
A sort of gradual, uneven vibration. Might
take an hour or two hours, but the wall
moves back and forth six inches. Looks as
if the whole dome contracts and expands
for some reason.”
And baffling as the phenomenon was, Perry
stubbornly stored it away in the back of his
mind. Anyway, he didn’t have further time
to investigate it then, for Sunset Boule¬
vard had a fire!
The word rang in Perry’s exhausted mind
like a dreadful gong. He had just finished
laying the last hose line, however, and all he
had to do was to divert the flow of water
from some pumpers at Sunset and Vine, and
from Santa Monica Boulevard.
Handling hoses was another matter! No
sooner did the hoses start filling and spout¬
ing under high pressure than they began to
buck. Fifty or a hundred midgets were
powerless to hold those threshing monsters.
The hoses became living snakes, wildly, mad¬
ly lashing, and midgets fled screaming, barely
missing death. And for awhile it seemed as
if they would never be able to control that
fire. The flames were growing and threat¬
ened to destroy the whole block.
Perry saved the situation by lashing the
hoses to telephone poles in such a manner
that the gushing streams of valuable water
could be directed on the flames. And as the
flames died through that harrowing night, he
would move the hoses up another notch,
fastening them to some solid object nearer
the fire.
The fire was extinguished in the early
morning, and Perry’s firemen gathered
around him, shouting their glee. Perry’s
throat choked up. These past days he had
been acting solely on his nerve. What right
had he,'the runt everybody made fun of, to
take responsibility for a job he wasn’t fitted
for? But now it was different. Those peo¬
ple, the whole city, respected him loved him!
His lip curled, however. After the dome
was gone, and everybody saw how much of a
runt he actually was, they’d repudiate him
in a hurry. He shuddered, his pity for him¬
self rushing back.
He was a tottering wreck when he showed
up at the hospital next day. He had cen¬
tralized his organization by taking over a
senior air raid warden’s office on Wilshire.
The members of his various bureaus would
bring their reports to him there. Perry had
managed to obtain only a dozen hours sleep
since he had found Fabricus with his back
broken. He hadn’t seen Wilma at all, and he
ached to see her.
His heart sank when the nurses told him
about Fabricus. The scientist was worse. A
dozen internes had managed to get an oxy¬
gen tank into the scientist’s room. Fabricus
had pneumonia. Fabricus might die! Perry
maintained his calmness with effort.
But the hospital was humming. The en¬
tire staff had returned. And missing staffs
had also reappeared at all other hospitals.
Perry learned. His gloom brightened a little.
He looked up the superintendent of the hos¬
pital, and talked with him on a matter that
had been perking in the back of his head.
The hospital superintendent didn’t get the
idea at first. He was inclined to laugh at
28 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
Perry Wren.
“Aw, don’t worry, Mr. Wren,” he said.
“People eat far less than they used to. A
carrot or a potato, or a can of beans can feed
the average midget family for an entire day,
these times. There is no need for you to
worry.”
But Perry continued to shake his head
gloomily.
“You still don’t get what I’m driving at,”
he said to the physician. “Think for a mo¬
ment. This dome seems to be air tight.
Pretty soon sanitary conditions are going to
become a problem and the atmosphere is
likely to get stale. Our only real hope is
Fabricus. He’s the one man who can destroy
the dome, and he’s unconscious most of the
time.”
THE hospital superintendent turned pale.
He chewed nervously on his tiny mus¬
tache.
“We’ll save Fabricus,” he promised. “We’ll
save him because we’ve got to. I’ll warn my
staff and we’ll take good care he doesn’t die.”
“Fine,” said Perry Wren. He stared at the
doctor. “Now about the food situation.
We’ll have to put up with the dome for two
or three weeks more at least. I think we
should find a substitute food, if possible—
such as grass. Not long ago I was reading
that, under certain conditions, grass can be
used as food.”
“Grass!” The superintendent shook his
head with a quick, protesting motion.
“Can’t be done without preparation. You
see, man can eat grass and digest it, only
if a certain cellulose-digesting bacteria are
implanted in his intestines—implanted arti¬
ficially. But it would take us two or three
weeks to grow the amount of culture neces¬
sary for the first dose. Everybody in Holly¬
wood would have to take several doses, last¬
ing over a period of a month. At the end
of that time, we’d be able to eat grass. But
by that time—” he stopped awkwardly
“—well, by that time we’ll certainly be nor¬
mal again.”
But that wasn’t what the physician meant.
Perry knew what he was thinking, and his
heart sank. Naturally, it was impossible.
It would take seven or eight weeks before
people could live on grass. But the food
supply would give out long before then.
He changed the subject, and inquired
about Wilma.
The superintendent told him she had left
an hour ago. She had made some reference
to the Blannery Brothers Motion Picture
lot, and Barry Fitz-Roy.
A fit of depression seized Wren. He was
too weary to puzzle out how Wilma got to
the lot, because it was some distance from
here. He threw himself onto an unused bed,
staring at the ceiling. Wilma was going
Hollywood. He groaned and sank into an
uneasy slumber. This time he failed to
dream that he was Barry Fitz-Roy. Instead,
Perry and Fitz-Roy were fighting, and Perry
was altering Fitz-Roy’s handsome face in a
truly astonishing way.
It was the following day that he under¬
stood how Wilma got back and forth from
the hospital to the lot. He looked up from
his desk in the air raid warden’s office that he
had taken over. His blood froze. He jumped
to his feet with a squawk of unbelief. Com¬
ing down the street at quite a respectable
pace was a yellow-coated mongrel. And
astride the dog’s back, guiding it by a bridle
was Wilma Warren.
“Wilma!” exclaimed Perry Wren.
Wren was at the curb, yelling the name
as the dog came to a stop, with tongue lolling.
Wilma lowered herself to the sidewalk.
She giggled. “Nobody else. Perry. And
this is Rex. I saw him on the street, with a
bunch of other dogs, chasing some midgets.
I grabbed Rex and told him how ashamed of
him I was. Fie used to belong to my land¬
lady. Before that, he was a trick dog in a
side-show, so he’s pretty smart.” She nodded
her red-gold head pertly.
“And the other dogs didn’t hurt you?”
Perry said, astonished.
“I guess I was lucky,” she admitted.
“These dogs were all formerly, pets. They
wouldn’t hurt anybody. They were just hav¬
ing fun. If the little people had stood up to
them, they’d have run with their tails be¬
tween their legs. It’s the curbstone breeds
and the naturally bad dogs, the cats and rats
that are dangerous.”
Perry caressed Rex’s ears in wonder. But
Wilma’s words brought back to mind a
menace that Perry had not dealt with yet.
The menace from animals who might attack
the midgets. How could he overcome that
peril? He groaned. At the same time, he
remembered he had resolved to treat Wilma
coolly. He turned and went back into the
office and sat with his chin in his palms.
Sensing his hostility, Wilma followed him.
She clambered onto the desk.
“Aw, Perry,” she said. “What’s the mat¬
ter?”
He glared at her. “You know what’s the
matter,” he answered. “At a time when
everybody should be working for the com¬
mon good, you have to go Hollywood. I’m
THE GIANT RUNT
ashamed of you.”
“Go Hollywood!” Red spots grew on her
cheeks.
“That’s it. And you’ve been making a play
for Barry Fitz-Roy.”
Her lips opened and closed. She said in a
strangled tone, “Perry Wren, I should kick
you in the face. I worked eighteen hours
straight in the hospital before I ever thought
of sleeping. I’ve worked that long ever day.
And all I did yesterday was to spend two
hours at the Blannery lot taking a screen
test. I’ve—I’ve got a break at last and I’m
taking advantage of it, so there! Miracle
Man Maeberle was excited when he saw me.
He said I was a natural. He’s going to make
a midget picture—a real midget picture with
real midgets. He says it’ll be colossal.”
Perry pursed his lips partonizingly. “With¬
out electricity he couldn’t make a home
movie projector work.”
She smiled. “His technicians are using
gasoline generators and wiring the whole
lot with electricity. It’ll work, too. That’s
the reason they call him Miracle Man Mae¬
berle. So there!”
“Well, all I know is Maeberle’s got a lot of
nerve trying to make a movie when a whole
cityful of lives is at stake.” Perry protested
angrily.
1VE GOT up and walked the length of the
room, running his suddenly shaking
hand through his hair.
“Maeberle, may be making a picture that
no one here will ever live to see, Wilma,” he
explained. “Fabricus is the only one who can
tell us how to destroy the dome—and what
if he dies? We’ll eventually starve or smoth¬
er, or die of thirst. At this minute, the
only three lakes in the city are being drained.
On top of that, the sewage system doesn’t
work. Disease is going to break out. Ty¬
phus. And what are we going to do for fresh
vegetables and meat?”
Wilma came to the very edge of the desk,
following him with suddenly rounded eyes
as he paced.
“But, Perry!” she wailed, all her anger, all
her pride in her movie career gone. “You
practically told the people everything was
going to be all right!”
“Certainly,” he bit out. “To stop a panic.
To give people hope. To make them co¬
operate. But I didn’t think people would be
so optimistic that they’d go on living their
lives as if nothing had happened. This is a
crisis, Wilma. Just because people have
found out how to use wood fires for cooking
and how to climb stairs and how to make
29
clothing and how to carry on with the es¬
sential affairs of life doesn’t mean they can
carry on that way forever. In two or three
weeks, if Fabricus doesn’t come to, people
are going to start dying!”
He threw himself into his chair, chewing
at his lip.
“I didn’t—realize, Perry,” Wilma faltered.
“I’ll give up my movie career, of course. For
awhile, anyway. I want to help. I thought
everything was under such marvelous con¬
trol, but—”
Suddenly her face was animated, her eyes
sparkling. Her touch on his hand started his
blood to tingling and pulses to hammering
as if she were of normal size.
“Perry, I’ve an idea! I’ll be your secretary.
They won’t need me at the hospital, with all
the nurses and people going back to work.
You can get a toy desk for me at the Broad-
way-Hollywood Department Store. I’ll keep
books. Whenever we take gas from the cars
parked alongside all the curbs, we’ll leave a
credit slip, stating that the Dos Angeles
Chamber of Commerce will pay for the gas.
I think the Chamber of Commerce will be
glad to pay those bills, because there’ll be so
much good publicity. We’ll prevent counter¬
feiting by making the slips out in duplicate.”
She danced up and down in excitement,
while Perry felt the vast load of total re¬
sponsibility unexpectedly, welcomely, sliding
from his shoulders.
“Your Town Criers, Perry, can ride around
on children’s tricycles we’ll get from depart¬
ment stores. We’ll make out credit slips
for those, too. And—” her mind was appar¬
ently groping with problems Perry hadn’t
thought of before— “and you can teach mid¬
gets to drive cars! One man each for the
wheel, for the clutch, for the gear shift, for
the brake, for the accelerator—”
“And a coxswain!” Perry suggested, in
delight.
“A coxswain,” she agreed. “He’ll tell every¬
body what to do at a certain time, like in a
racing shell. Wouldn’t that make everything
run smoother? The hospitals and super¬
markets could be kept supplied with food and
medicine from warehouses and supply
shops.”
The words poured out, while Perry
watched her in a growing approval and
amazement. With Wilma to help him the
burden he carried would be made a million
times easier. On impulse, he started to do
what he had wanted to do ever since he saw
her, in spite of her marionette size. He start¬
ed to kiss her. But she was looking past
him, through the plate glass window. Sud-
JO THRILLING WONDER STORIES
denly she pointed and screamed.
“Perry! Look!”
Perry looked. His spine tingled with hor¬
ror. In plain sight on the slightly ragged
lawn next to his office a three-inch child
was playing. The child was so small that the
grass blades must have seemed like a jungle.
Through the grasses of that jungle came a
beast of prey—a gray, triangular-nosed beast
with a long, fleshy tail.
A normal, full-size rat!
Perry darted from the office, his chair
clattering behind him. He raced across the
lawn, praying. But he knew he was too late
as the white fangs of the disgusting creature
gleamed and came together. The rat scuttled
away in fright, however, dropping its tiny
victim, as Perry yelled.
Revolted by the incident, Perry scooped up
the child in quick compassion. He cursed
vividly. The fangs had closed on the tiny
legs. The child, a girl, was too shocked to
scream, though there were long bloody fur¬
rows on her limbs.
“Put me on Rex, Perry,” said a voice.
Perry turned stupidly but saw immediately
what Wilma intended. In another instant,
Wilma was holding onto Rex with one arm,
cradling the child tenderly with another.
“Giddyap,” said Wilma. “Come on, Rex!
There’s a good dog.”
Rex started off, uncertain until he under¬
stood in what direction his mistress was di¬
recting him. Then he went loping down the
boulevard at steady speed toward the hospital
and lost himself to Perry’s sight.
Perry looked at the blood on his hands.
He gritted his teeth. He’d found plenty of
evidence that treacherous beasts were ram¬
paging throughout the trapped city. Well,
now he was going to do something about it!
CHAPTER V
“Miracle Man” Maeberle
GAINST his will Perry Wren now be¬
came the equivalent of a dictator. What¬
ever had happened to the actual govern¬
mental staff of Los Angeles he didn’t find
out, but he suspected they must have been
outside the enclosed area when the dome
went up. At any rate, he never found his
authority questioned. His Town Criers con¬
stantly went through the town, some on
small tricycles, posting placards which Wil¬
ma carbon-copied on a typewriter by striking
each key one hard blow with her fist.
Perry first waged a campaign to make
people wary of animals. Whenever possible,
people should band together, present a united
front.
Children must at no time be out of their
parents’ sight or reach.
Windows and doors should be closed dur¬
ing sleeping hours.
Those pets which were loyal to their mas¬
ters, despite the shocking change in size,
should be tied up and fed regularly. Many
dogs, for instance, would recognize their
masters by smell and not by sight.
Perry grew more pleased when he hit on
an idea which reduced the danger from an¬
imals still more. He formed the Protector
Corps. These were formed of men who
owned light derringers, automatics, revolvers,
or even air pistols—men who knew how to
use those weapons. Perry found several
hundred such men, and assigned them cer¬
tain streets and beats. They were to shoot
to kill.
If their weapons were too heavy, they were
to fasten them to roller skates Perry pro¬
vided. They were to stand on the skates so
that there would be no danger from the re¬
coil of their monster weapons.
Other admonitions Perry dealt out con¬
cerned food and cars. People must not hoard
food. When and if the food markets gave
out, policemen and air raid wardens would
inspect homes for hoarding.
Sugar ration cards must be used, each
ticket hereafter good for only a quarter of a
pound. Later on, all food might have to be
rationed.
Garbage and refuse of all kinds must be
deeply buried.
Car owners were to leave their ignition
keys in their cars, for the use of Perry’s
newly formed Motor Corps. Owners would
be remunerated later on by the city govern¬
ment for any wear and tear.
At the end of that first week, Perry looked
around on a smoothly running city, satis¬
faction tugging at his heart. He had had two
wrecks before the first unit of his Motor
Corps moved safely up and down the boule¬
vard, the “coxswain” unhesitatingly giving
orders to shift, brake, let out the clutch,
accelerate. There were now twenty-five such
units. Perry was proud of himself and of
his handiwork.
When Barry Fitz-Roy finally put in an
appearance, Perry knew that his hero wor¬
ship of the movie star was entirely gone.
But he felt a sharp, hopeless twinge of
jealousy when he saw the undisguised inter¬
est Wilma gave Barry.
31
THE GIANT RUNT
Although thousands of midgets were now
clothing themselves in muslin suits of shorts,
Fitz-Roy still wore a colorful, Hawaiian-style
kerchief.
“Some dump you’ve got here,” Fitz-Roy
said appreciatively. “I hear you’re doing a
pretty good job. Afraid I’m going to have
to take your secretary away for a few hours,
though, Wren. She passed her screen test.”
Wilma squealed in delight. The she
faltered. “Oh, oh! Barry, I can’t.” She lookd
at Perry, crestfallen, and made a helpless
gesture. “We’re just too busy. I’ve got all
these credit slips to make out.”
Perry stopped her by tenderly picking her
up, putting her on his desk. He looked down
at her, a little, gorgeous pixie in a flowered
gingham dress she had made herself.
He grinned wryly. “Go ahead, Wilma. I’ve
got a little extra time. I’ll finish up those
credit slips.”
Her eyes were pained. “Oh, Perry, I
shouldn’t. I shouldn’t go. You’ve only been
sleeping four and five hours a night as it is.”
“Go on,” said Perry generously. “You’ve
earned it.”
She went almost reluctantly. Perry saw
her climb aboard Rex, saw Barry, unused to
this astounding means of locomotion,
struggling up behind her.
He looked after them. What he had want¬
ed to tell her was that she might just as
well have part of her dreams concerning a
movie career come true. Because, from what
the hospital superintendent had told him, it
looked as if Fabricus might be fighting a los¬
ing battle. . . .
Three typhoid cases were reported to Perry
that afternoon. Together with three midget
doctors, he tracked down the source of the
infection and destroyed it. But at this very
minute, other sources, because of the care¬
lessness of midgets in burying garbage and
refuse of all kinds, were being created. The
doctors told Perry that in the event of a real
typhoid epidemic, the facilities in the city
would not be sufficient to handle it.
He arrived back at the office to find that
he had company. He had left the door
unlocked as usual.
A midget dressed in a perfectly fitted tweed
suit was walking up and down the floor in
an agony of impatience. He clenched a full-
size cigar in his mouth. His hair was a bushy
tangle of black ringlets. He was about thirty.
Barry Fitz-Roy was sprawled on Perry’s
desk. Wilma was not present.
r B T HE midget smoking the cigar stopped
* pacing.
He glowered.
“Where the devil have you been?” he
shouted. “Never mind. You’ve kept me
waiting a whole hour, long enough to dictate
a scenario twice as long as ‘Gone With the
Wind’.”
The words poured out in a frenzy, while
he waved his cigar.
His voice now dropped to a sudden irri¬
tated growl. “Here. Here. Put me up on
that desk, sonny.”
“Miracle Man Maeberle,” Perry thought to
himself in some astonishment.
He hesitated between anger and curiosity.
He lifted Maeberle. Fitz-Roy hurriedly
dropped to the floor.
“Now,” said Maeberle. “Now.”
His almond-shaped eyes glittered. His
throat muscles corded.
“Eeyowerowyarrh!”
It was an eerie, spine-tingling roar that
blanched Perry’s face.
Maeberle was pleased.
“Think you can make a sound like that?”
he shot out.
“Huh? Good heavens! What for?”
As if in answer to this question, Maeberle
struck a pose.
“Voice off set, blank screen,” he said in a
dead monotone. “Our story deals with a rural
metropolis where people know no want, no
fear, only contentment. There is the village
church. Screen lights slowly, montage of
village life, organ music in background.
There is the pastor’s son, Barry Fitz-Roy, a
strong, wholesome youth who is courting
Wilma Warren, the beautiful choir singer.
All is contentment, all is well, until—”
The movie director swelled out his chest,
opened his mouth wide.
“Eeyowerowyarrh! ”
“Down from the mountains, out of the
ghoulish hidden places that man has never
explored, comes Perry Wren, the Monster
Man!”
The short hairs on Perry’s neck stood up.
“You—you mean you want me as the vil¬
lain of your midget picture?” His voice
trembled with incredulity. “The villain?”
Maeberle flooded the air with smoke. “Ex¬
actly that, sonny,” he said with a broad ges¬
ture.
“I don’t think much of your movie, Mr.
Maeberle,” Perry said faintly. “The picture
wouldn’t be true to life. You see, you’ve got
a giant picking on midgets. It—-well, it just
doesn’t happen that way. In true life, the
giant would be friendly. He’d want to help
the midgets. I know, because I happen to be
—er—a giant.”
32 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
“And since when do I have to make a pic¬
ture that’s true to life?”
“Since when do you have a right making a
picture at all, going ahead with your business
as if nothing else matters?” Perry demanded
with sudden blazing bitterness. “They call
you a miracle man. Well, maybe you’d better
apply your talents to helping the people of
this city. Grow me a crop of lettuce in a
week. Find me a new source of water to re¬
place the lakes we’re draining now. Find
some way to get fresh meat.”
“And give up my wonderful art ?” Maeberle
screeched. He came to the edge of the desk.
“You—you mean to tell me you’re refusing
this part in my movie, you ingrate?”
“That’s what I mean! I haven’t the time.
I’m too busy. Now get out!”
“You upstart!” Maeberle jumped agilely
to the floor. He shook his fist. “I’ll have
you blacklisted in every studio in Hollywood.
Come on, Barry.”
Perry held the door open for them, and
gaped as he saw the two midgets cross the
street and climb aboard a two-wheeled roller¬
skate.
The skate was attached to the leather har¬
ness around the neck of a brindle bulldog.
Maeberle flicked the reins, standing up like
a charioteer, while Barry Fitz-Roy sat down
and hung on. The bulldog went loping away.
Perry gaped. Miracle Man Maeberle, they
called him, and no wonder!
Five minutes later, Wilma Warren came
charging into the office on the back of her
fantastic, golden-haired mount.
“Perry!” she cried excitedly. “Fabricus is
better! He’s conscious. I’ve just come from
the hospital. Dr. Fabricus has passed the
crisis! In a few days, you’ll be able to talk
to him.”
Four days later Perry Wren was standing
at the bedside of the only full-sized human in
Hollywood beside himself.
Fabricus was flat on his back, his dark
brows drawn down in.a sardonic, bitter scowl.
But he gripped Perry’s hand fervently.
“They tell me you’ve been doing great
things, lad.” His eyes shifted and dropped
hopelessly. “Hang it all, it’s a good thing
you saw that light in my place.”
“Don’t blame yourself for it, sir,” Perry
begged. “It just wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
Fabricus waved his protestations aside.
“They tell me the outside world communi¬
cated with us yesterday.”
“Communicated?” Perry laughed grimly.
“Worse than useless. A one-sided communi¬
cation. There’s no way for us to answer
them. And apparently they can’t help us.”
UE FELL into a momentary silence. Yes,
the outside world had at last established
contact. Perry himself had seen the sky¬
writing laid a mile high, athwart the sky by
a lone, invisible plane—invisible because it
was so far above the dome.
“We are trying to help.” So the message
had run, and it had filled Perry with the wild
fire of hope. The trapped people of Holly¬
wood had gone mad at the sight. It was
proof that they were not forgotten, that
there actually were other people in the world
—people who had the fate of the trapped city
in mind.
But after that first surge of hope, Perry
had known disillusionment.
“What good is it?” he now asked Fabricus.
“For two weeks they’ve had the brains and
tools of a whole world at their disposal. If
they haven’t discovered how to destroy the
dome by this time, it means that more days
and weeks will pass before they even come
near the solution. And the water supply
won’t last even three weeks more. That
means the end of everybody here.”
He told Fabricus about the wall of the
dome where it touched the ground, told him
that his Morse code men had discovered—
that the dome contracted and expanded by
the minute amount of six inches. Fabricus
shook his head blankly. He could not ex¬
plain it.
But he could answer other questions which
had puzzled Perry.
Fabricus and Perry themselves had been
spared the size-reduction because the force-
dome generator had created extremely long
wave-lengths of energy. The two men had
been inclosed within a sphere around the
machine, the radius of which was one wave¬
length—a null and void zone which was
neither negative nor positive.
There had been no “beat”—or pulsation—
which is caused when the trough and crest
of two wave-lengths coincide. The people
outside that radius, on the other hand, had
been subjected to the full force of a recurring
series of beats.
An analogy for this is found in the fact
that when one is within a certain number
of feet of an echoing surface, there is no echo.
The sound-wave, being a wave-length meas¬
ured in feet, incloses the person who at¬
tempts to produce the echo.
“But why weren’t we affected when we
left the warehouse?”
“There was a secondary radiation or field
which was present in its full intensity when
the dome was created—perhaps only for a
fraction of a second. This secondary radia-
THE GIANT RUNT
33
tion was the reduction-field. After the dome
was up, the secondary radiation subsided in
intensity. It was no longer powerful enough
to reduce us in size.
“As to how that secondary field brought
about such a fantastic size-reduction—well, I
think I’ve got the answer to that one, too.
And a peculiar answer it is. Perry, I think
I’ve proved that man has a soul!”
Perry had vaguely considered that possi¬
bility, but he said nothing now.
“Why didn’t that secondary radiation ef¬
fect other animals—dogs, cats, horses, rats,
cattle—as it did man?” Fabricus went on. “To
find the answer, one must first discover in
what way animals differ from man. Physically
they are the same, or practically the same.
Mentally, a man is more highly advanced, but
the structure of the brain is about the same.
Spiritually—there lies the difference! The
psyche. The soul. The one attribute which
most religions agree man possess but ani¬
mals do not.”
“Then the secondary radiation didn’t act
on the body at all?”
“Well, not exactly. The secondary radia¬
tion didn’t act directly on the body. It had
to pass through the psyche before it acquired
its peculiar power to shrink electronic orbits,
thus reducing thousands of bodies in size.
The psyche in this case acted as a sort of
electro-magnetic catalyst which changed the
secondary radiation so that it was able to
accomplish the size-reduction.”
Perry listened, enthralled, to an outer, un¬
expected proof that man truly possessed a
soul.
Fabricus was able to answer another ques¬
tion, also. Why was the wall of the dome
nearest the ground completely opaque? Be¬
cause the stress-fields which composed the
dome were polarized in the direction of
gravity. At the base of the dome, therefore,
light yvas unable to get through, because it
was going “against the grain.” As the wall
curved toward the apex of the dome, greater
amounts of light filtered through, because
the light was shining downward “through
the grain.”
Perry arose, his face suddenly gloomy.
Fabricus had advanced no theory which
might be put into operation to destroy the
dome.
He shook the older man’s hand, an un¬
voiced question in his eyes.
Fabricus flushed painfully.
“I’ll try, lad,” he said huskily.
But after Perry had gone, he sadly shook
his head. His expression was one of hope¬
lessness.
CHAPTER VI
A Reluctant Monster
MfOR several days, now, Wilma Warren
had been at the Blannery Lots, working
four and five hours aday. Perry had nothing to
complain about, since Wilma worked as his
secretary for ten and twelve hours each day.
To a certain degree, the studio work was
her recreation, though she was obviously
tiring. But, try to avoid it though he would,
a hostility grew up between him and Wilma.
She knew of his refusal to play the part of
the Monster Man.
“I’m going to the studio this afternoon,”
she had told Perry one day. “They’re doing
some mob scenes for the picture.”
“What picture?”
“The midget picture.”
Perry marveled. “Maeberle is going ahead
with it, anyway?”
Wilma ran through the reports and ex¬
pense accounts that Perry had piled up on
her desk—typewriter size sheets that to her
were twice as big as newspapers.
She answered him without looking up.
“They’re going ahead with it. Maeberle has
gathered together all the extras, actors,
actresses, make-up men, sound-effects men,
camera-grinders, and movie stagehands he
can find. He’s going to pay them big money
and he’s buying their food and supplying
them with water. He’s got about two hun¬
dred, maybe three hundred people living
right on the lot. Maeberle’s doing all the
scenes except the ones you’re supposed to
be in.”
She bit at her lip. She stood on her desk,
a tiny, beautifully shaped little mannequin,
and began to punch at a portable typewriter
that had legal type, one blow for each key.
Perry chose to remain in a state of polite
surprise. “Wonderful. The script is already
written ?”
“Maeberle wrote it.”
“And Maeberle is producing it?”
“And directing it, too.”
Perry frowned. “Does he act in it?”
“He plays the part of the pastor.”
“Who puts the make-up on?”
“Maeberle does some of that.”
Then she saw the patronizing way he was
looking at her. She spoke through her teeth,
almost inarticulately. “Just because I’ve got
a chance at the career I’ve always wanted,
Perry Wren, you accuse me of going Holly¬
wood. If I were letting down on my job
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
here, it would be different. But I’m not. And
it isn’t as if Maeberle shouldn’t be making a
picture. You, yourself, told me you’ve got so
many of the people offering their services
that you can’t give them all jobs.”
Perry protested. “I don’t object.”
“You don’t object,” she flared. “But if you
don’t accept Maeberle’s screen offer, the
whole picture will be impossible. After
dreaming about a movie career all my life,
Perry Wren, it isn’t nice to see my bubble
pricked!” She sniffed. But all Perry could
do was to shake his head, helplessly. To him
it seemed apparent Wilma Warren disliked
him. Or, at the very least, she liked Fitz-Roy
better.
Miracle Man Maeberle again approached
Perry.
“Five thousand a week,” he said desper¬
ately. “And a bonus of ten thousand after
the picture is released. You can’t refuse
me. It’s a set-up. Natural midgets and a
natural giant. We don’t have to fake. It’ll
never happen again in a million years.”
Perry firmly—and urgently—shooed him
away.
The next day, Perry was busy studying a
map of the inclosed city. He had little “x”
marks at certain places, marking empty food
warehouses. There were too many of those
“x” marks.
Nor was this the only sign that events were
coming to a head. MacArthur and Echo
Lakes were being pumped away. Silver Lake
Reservoir was still appreciably full, but it
was now taking the brunt of the burden.
There was one more source of water which
Perry had finally tapped. These were the
water-mains below the city streets. Perry
had held a consultation with a dozen midget
fire-chiefs. The result of this was that auxili¬
ary pressure pumps were now forcing water
from the mains through fire hydrants. This
water, being fresh, supplied hospitals ex¬
clusively.
Perry sat there, studying the map, but
something was perking in the back of his
head. Something that bothered him. He un¬
easily walked the length of the room, hands
behind his back.
What was it? And suddenly a phrase that
Wilma had spoken came to him:
“It isn’t nice to see my bubble pricked!”
A—bubble!
He snapped his fingers in elation. Fifteen
minutes later, he was standing over Fabricus,
rapt and excited over a discovery so tremen¬
dous in import that it was a practical cinch
that it would lead to the clue Fabricus needed
to formulate the theory by which the dome
could be destroyed.
“A bubble!” he cried. “That’s what the
dome is, sir. And I’ve all the proof I need.”
'WjS7'REN swept the curtains aside. Fabri¬
cus, still on his back, still splinted im¬
movably from head to toe, could see the
transparent apex of the dome. It shifted with
subtle, mother-of-pearl colors.
“You’ve seen soap bubbles shifting with
those same colors,” Perry said tensely. “The
light is refracted like in a prism. The film
that forms the bubble in this case is some¬
where between a liquid and a solid and a
magnetic field. It responds to molecular
forces. Surface tension, an electro-magnetic
surface tension, holds it together.
“And like a smaller bubble, this bubble
that incloses Hollywood, expands and con¬
tracts with each change in atmospheric pres¬
sure. If the atmospheric pressure outside the
dome drops, the pressure inside the dome
causes the dome to expand, and vice versa.
You see how it tallies, sir?”
“Perfect!” Fabricus exclaimed in some as¬
tonishment. He pursed his mobile lips and
nodded his head pertly. “Hang me, you’ve
got it! And your idea is, of course, is the
obvious one.”
“To prick the bubble!” cried Fabricus.
Yes, a bubble overlay Hollywood. Except
in size, it was the same as a smaller, every¬
day bubble. It was held together by a sur¬
face tension that was mostly electro¬
magnetic.
There was a surface film, however, that
even cannon balls could not destroy, for they
would merely bounce off that incredibly
tough and thick film. Fabricus had designed
it to resist mere molecular forces. How, then,
could the bubble be pricked, exploded? What
tool could be used?
It was Fabricus, of course, who eventually
solved the problem. One fought fire with
fire. If the bubble was held together by an
electro-magnetic surface tension, an electro¬
magnetic, interfering vibration would cancel
out that surface tension, and create a punc¬
ture in that tough, surface film. Once a por¬
tion of the dome was destroyed, the surface
tension that held it stretched in shape would
cause its disappearance, in an instant. Like
a soap bubble vanishes.
Perry sat at Fabricus’bedside for long hours
during the next two days. He worked with
T-square, drawing board, triangles, drafting
pen, and French curves, drawing up the plans
for the machine from sketches Fabricus
made. Now and again, Fabricus gave him no¬
tations on dimensions, on voltages and am-
THE GIANT RUNT 35
perages, correcting him when he placed a
positive sign where a minus should be.
Fabricus checked over the completed
plans, his peculiarly mobile lips stretched in
a smile of delighted satisfaction.
“Now, have the machine made,” he cried.
“It will do the job.”
Have the machine made!
Perry Wren sat at his desk, later on, and
looked blankly at the plans. They were com¬
plex. They required an assortment of con¬
densers, tubes, three-way wires, copper and
silver ball electrodes—all parts which would
be hard to find in a small city, particularly
since the war had made such parts scarce.
But he had to have those parts!
He sent runners out, with orders to track
down the needed parts from radio repair and
supply shops. At the end of twenty-four
hours, a meager percentage of those parts
had been found.
r ff , HIS frightened him. It was incredible
that the method of deliverance should be
found, only to discover that the method could
not be put into operation. In a frenzy, he him¬
self drove through the city, searching through
supply houses, warehouses, department
stores. Failure.
He found Wilma Warren and Barry Fitz¬
Roy waiting for him. Wilma’s dog, Rex, was
sitting on his haunches and panting.
Fitz-Roy looked a little seedy. It was ap¬
parent that the jungle darling of every red-
blooded woman in the nation was having a
hard time roughing it.
“I was looking for the expense accounts of
the I. Magnon and Bullock’s-Wilshire de¬
partment stores, Perry,” Wilma said.
Perry reached into a drawer and put the
sheets on her toy desk. She stood on the
desk and used both hands to roll a sheet of
tying paper into the typewriter.
Perry sat down miserably, his hands be¬
tween his knees.
Fitz-Roy was leaning on the edge of Wil¬
ma’s desk, scowling.
“Something eating you?” he demanded
sarcastically. “It should.” His voice was bit¬
ter. “You’re ruining our picture.”
“Your picture won’t be much good, Fitz¬
Roy, because everybody’s going to die before
it’s finished,” Perry said.
And suddenly he found himself blurting
out the story of his failure, the words tum¬
bling. He had the plans for the machine
that would destroy the dome, but no means
to make the machine.
Wilma stopped typing. Her interest
changed to a glowing excitement. Fitz-Roy
was heedless, at first. Then his expression
changed to one of triumphant cunning.
“Miracle Man Maeberle!” they cried at the
same time.
Perry gasped. Of course!
“But—but do you think he’s miracle man
enough for that ?” he demanded, jumping ex¬
citedly to his feet.
“Maeberle,” Fitz-Roy informed him eager¬
ly, “can do anything!”
Perry’s eyes glistened. He grabbed the
plans from the desk and started for the
door. “Come on! We’ll give him a chance
to prove how much of a miracle man he is.”
Maeberle sat with his feet elevated on his
toy desk. He was smoking a five-inch cigar.
He regarded Perry with cunning. He had
been talking for five minutes, the main theme
being that he could do anything.
“You’ll make the bubble-pricking machine
for me then?” Perry demanded eagerly.
“Sure,” said Maeberle. “Sure. I’ll make it
in record time. Leave it to me.” He arose,
his shaggy black brows drawing over sud¬
denly cunning eyes. “And now, sonny,” he
said maliciously, “I got a favor to ask you.”
He drew himself to his full height, which
wasn’t much.
“Eeyowerowyarrh! ”
Maeberle blew greenish smoke upward.
“How about it, sonny? Think you can make
a sound like that?” He grinned cagily.
Perry’s shoulders fell. He knew when he
was licked. He understood perfectly the
only conditions under which Maeberle would
assemble the vital machinery.
He drew air into his lungs, made a cavern
of his mouth, and gave it everything he
had.
“Eeyowerowyarrh! ”
CHAPTER VII
Desperate Chances
H OARING with rage. Perry Wren was a
monster man, charging down on a
peaceful rural metropolis, out of the
ghoulish hidden places of the Adirondacks.
Save for a G-string, he was naked. He
trampled on men, women, and children alike.
His particular goal was Wilma Warren.
He loved Wilma Warren, but nobody knew
that, particularly Barry Fitz-Roy.
Barry Fitz-Roy, his home trampled to
ruins beneath the monster’s feet, his mother
and father mercilessly slain by this ravag¬
ing, soulless beast, now crept through the
36 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
countryside, on the trail of Perry Wren.
Perry Wren was holding Wilma Warren in
his filthy hands, making mumbling sounds
of adoration, but Wilma Warren thought he
was going to eat her. She screamed, and the
scream was duly recorded on the sound
track. Barry Fitz-Roy heard the scream,
turning his profile at the correct angle to the
hand-operated cameras, and was off, his chin
jutting with determination.
Perry Wren brought Wilma Warren
closer and closer to his shaggy lips. . . .
“Cut!”
Maeberle all but tore out his black ringlets.
“That ain’t any way to look ferocious. Can’t
you drool?”
Perry felt faint and carefully set down
Wilma.
“I’ve been trying to drool for a week,” he
said to Maeberle. “I’m sick of it. This is
the twelfth retake on this scene. Those
Kliegs are hurting my eyes. I’ve got more
important things to do than act like an idiot.
I’ve got to string some hose lines. The
water mains have given out and the hospitals
are begging me for more water. Typhoid
broke in the La Brea district last night and
I have to track down the source of the infec¬
tion, or else we’ll have a typhoid plague on
our hands. I’m sick of this.”
“Hold it!” Maeberle snapped. He licked
thick lips. His tone became wheedling.
“Just once more, Perry,” he begged. “This
is the high point of the picture.”
“How far have you progressed with the
machine?” Perry said in the same volcanic
Maeberle’s eyes flickered. “Gimme three
more days,” he pleaded. “I’ll deliver the
finished article to you.” He sent an appeal¬
ing glance at Wilma, desperately.
Wilma’s lovely face was strained with
fatigue.
“Please, Perry,” she said quietly.
Perry wearily trudged back to the papier-
mache trees, screwed his beard-matted face
into a hideous, lustful pattern and with
beady eyes watched Wilma Warren, inno¬
cently sitting on the bank of a meandering
stream, dangling her bare legs in the water.
The cameras ground. The microphones
picked up the twittering of birds produced
by the sound-effects man. The Klieg lights
overhung the scene. Maeberle had, as was
usual with him, done the impossible. Some¬
where he had found gasoline generators.
The Blannery Bros. Motion Pictures lot
was powered with gasoline-generated elec¬
tricity.
“Eeyowerowyarrh!” said Perry, blunder¬
ing into the clearing toward Wilma, and
drooling. . . .
Two days later, Perry Wren had drained
the last of the water from Silver and Echo
Lakes into McArthur Lake. “We can do
without food for a few days, maybe,” he
told himself, numbly. “But men can’t live
long without water.”
The warehouses, super-markets, chain
stores and independents were depleted.
Perry had sent out air raid wardens to track
down possible hoarders, with only mediocre
results. Famine also, was on its way.
Fabricus’ sharp eyes looked up at Perry’s
thinning face.
“You shouldn’t deprive yourself of food,”
he said grimly.
“I feel that I have to. I can do without
it. These midgets are my responsibility.”
Fabricus studied him. His lined face sud¬
denly grew gentle.
“You’ve changed since that night you
came into my laboratory, Perry,” he said.
“How so?”
“You were what is commonly known as
a sourpuss—because of your size.”
Perry flushed. “Maybe I was,” he said
stiffly. “How could I help but change?
I’m big and they’re little. After the dome
is destroyed—if it is destroyed—” He
stopped, appalled. “Everybody will go back
to his original height,” he said huskily. His
eyes dropped.
“Of course. But that won’t make any dif¬
ference in you. You’ve learned something
you won’t forget. You’ll discover that for
yourself.”
Perry changed the subject. He bitterly
poured into Fabricus’ ears the true state of
affairs. Maeberle had made good progress
on the machine that would prick the bubble,
but it still wasn’t finished. The only favor¬
able event of the last week was that Perry
had finished his scenes in the midget picture.
He had fulfilled his bargain with Maeberle.
Perry also had seen skywriting in the sky
over the dome almost daily, but this news
from the outside world was not favorable.
They were trying to destroy the dome. They
were failing. They had confessed they
weren’t even near a solution.
“We can’t count on them for any help,”
said Perry. “We have to wait for Maeberle.”
JjJE GOT thinner in the next few days, but
everybody else got thinner too. A ter¬
rible, unhealthy restlessness was growing
among the people. He tried to keep the city
organized, but that organization seemed
falling to pieces.
THE GIANT RUNT 37
There was a vitamin deficiency, for the
city had long been without fresh vegetables.
Walking down the quieting streets. Perry
heard the chilling cry of unfed, thirsty chil¬
dren.
Food and water were being thinly and
carefully rationed.
He walked vaguely, unable to concentrate.
Concentrate on what? In his heart, he had
been proud of himself. Now the thought of
all he had done was ashes on his tongue.
All that was for nothing.
The hospitals were filling up.
Perry feverishly wished he could take
over a hospital bed himself and feel free
of responsibility.
Wilma worked as usual. And if there
didn’t happen to be a Town Crier around
to take a message, she herself would climb
on Rex, and take the message.
Perry was aware that something was on
her mind. She couldn’t meet his eyes. But
he knew he was in love with Wilma, four
feet smaller than he. He liked everything
about her, and she stirred a yearning he
found difficult to hide.
That she looked upon him as anything
except a Monster Man was doubtful, though.
She doubtless loved Barry Fitz-Roy. Barry
Fitz-Roy was not thin. He was muscular
and healthy.
Nor did Maeberle seem affected by the
famine.
“Sure,” he boasted. “We live on our art.
The machine? It ain’t finished yet, Perry.”
He smashed his fist temptuously into his
palm.
“It’s driving me crazy!” I got my tech¬
nicians working on it. They’ve scoured the
city for some silver electrodes. So now I’ve
had them busy melting down some silver
candlesticks my great aunt gave me. I’ll
deduct them from your salary.”
Perry turned helplessly away, not know¬
ing what to say or do.
And then the dam of events broke—with
an appalling rush!
One evening Perry heard the knocking
on the door of his room above the office.
It was the middle of the night. He tumbled
groggily from the bed.
A tiny midget figure—Wilma—came into
the room, her red-gold hair bathed with
silver moonlight.
Perry lifted her to an end table, masking
his astonishment.
“Perry—” Wilma began. She gulped.
“Just how bad is the situation?”
Perry marshaled the ghastly, torturing
facts. There was simply no more water left
in Hollywood. Perry had tried drilling for
arterial wells, but the proper equipment
could not be found. The people had been
without food for two days. There were a
half-hundred typhoid patients in the hospi¬
tals.
He related these facts with a certain bitter
relish. “Maeberle promised me the bubble¬
piercing machine for yesterday. But it isn’t
finished.”
Wilma’s hands began to twist together,
and tears ran down her cheeks.
“That terrible, terrible man,” she sobbed.
“He’s been putting you off. He’s been put¬
ting everybody off. He and Barry Fitz-Roy
have a whole supply of water and food in an
air-raid shelter Maeberle built on the lot last
year, Barry Fitz-Roy told me yesterday,
when I asked him point-blank why he and
Maeberle were never hungry. He told me
about the food and water and then he
blurted out that the machine for destroying
the dome was finished.”
“Finished!” Perry shouted the word out
at the top of his voice.
“Barry must have felt a little ashamed,
and he wanted to share the blame of know¬
ing about it with someone else. I didn’t
let him know how I felt about the whole
thing, but as soon as I could get away,
I came here. Perry, the machine’s been
finished for a whole week.”
The words poured from her in a flood,
while Perry’s face went slowly grim.
Maeberle didn’t want the dome destroyed
until the picture was finished, because then
he would no longer have midgets to make
the movies. Perry winced at his own stupid¬
ity for not suspecting that before.
He made up his mind quickly. He scooped
Wilma up in one arm. There was work to
do—now!
As his station wagon came to a screech¬
ing stop, Perry was out of it, and walking
rapidly toward the entrance to the Blan-
nery lot. It was early morning. The sky was
pitch black. The spiked steel gates stretch¬
ing between the ’dobe walls were locked.
Far up at the other end of the lot, Perry
saw the bright glare of Kleig lights, saw hun¬
dreds of midgets—actresses, actors, brawny
stage carpenters, extras. Maeberle was
going ahead full blast, shooting a mob scene,
to judge by the thudding roar of midget
voices.
Perry shook the gate and yelled.
Jk MIDGET, the regular gatekeeper,
came out of the shadows and stood
looking at Perry. In his hand he was hold-
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
38
ing a tiny, light-weight Derringer.
He was pointing the gun at Perry.
“I got orders to keep you out of here,
Perry,” he said menacingly.
Something exploded with a puff of red
light in Perry’s brain. He turned, got into
the station wagon. He drove up the street
a block and a half and honked his horn
savagely. Windows opened. Perry beck¬
oned and commanded.
Within five minutes, he was surrounded by
a group of forty or fifty midgets. And
after Perry, in terse, raging sentences, had
explained the situation, that group grew, a
group that was ugly with violent intentions.
There were two hundred midgets, and more
coming in every second. They waved every
conceivable kind of weapon. Table forks
and knives, drumsticks, long darning
needles, scissors, rubber bands and paper
wads, long, sharp-heeled women’s shoes,
marbles, electric light bulbs, leather belts,
lengths of heavy cord, coat hangers—any¬
thing and everything which they were
strong enough and big enough to use with
damaging effect.
In addition, they had brought along a half-
dozen ladders with which to storm the walls.
The rungs were so far apart, true, that the
midgets would have had to shinny up the
legs of the ladder most of the way, but
there was no substitute which would serve
the purpose as well.
Perry looked over the assemblage with
suddenly misted eyes. These midgets loved
him, depended on him. They didn’t know
he was a runt, that he was only five feet
tall. Later on, they’d realize it, and they’d
feel embarrassed that they’d had to depend
on a pipsqueak. But that was neither here
nor there.
“You know what to do,” he said. “Just
follow after me. And be sure your clothing
is loose, so it won’t strangle you when you
return to normal size.”
He crossed to the station wagon. He
stuck his gigantic head in and kissed Wilma.
This was the end, in a way. An episode was
drawing to a close, his power would soon
be over. He would be a runt again.
If the machine worked!
“Stay here, Wilma,” said Perry.
The command was brusque, to cover his
sudden sloppy sentimentality. But Wilma
Warren smiled gloriously. She quickly made
a gesture and when he stooped down, she
kissed him again.
“That’s for you, Perry Wren!”
Perry turned, waved his “army” after him.
A few minutes later, the ladders were set
against the walls, the midgets were strug¬
gling upward. Perry waiting until most of
his midgets were on top the wall, then he
went up two rungs at a time.
A blasting yell rang out from a loud
speaker as he reached the top.
“Get down off there! Git! Mr. Mae-
berle! It’s that Perry Wren!”
A shot blasted out. Something hummed
past his ear. He lost his temper. The first
thing he could think to say was: “Eeyowero-
wyarrh!”
Perry Wren, the Monster Man, coming
from the wilds of Hollywood to plunder and
destroy a motion picture lot!
Perry hung from the wall, dropped. He
turned, just as Maeberle began to bellow at
the top of his voice. Perry saw a wave of
midgets swarming toward him as he ran
ahead. A sudden rain of small missiles show¬
ered over him. He grinned savagely, put one
arm in front of his eyes, and plowed into
the thick of the incredible horde. He got
about halfway through when something
pulled his legs from under him.
The midgets swarmed over him, panting
and cursing, and kicking him in the face.
“It didn’t happen like this in the picture,”
he thought in some astonishment.
He rolled over with a ponderous effort, and
heard some midgets scream. Briefly, he
caught a tableau of his fighters coming down
the wall. Since the jump would have been
too steep, they had managed to draw one of
the lighter ladders over and let it down in¬
side the wall. They were coming in pell-mell,
waving their needles and kitchen forks and
jabbing with them. They were tangling with
the midgets at the base of the ladder.
Perry got to his feet again, and was pulled
down again. He laboriously picked midgets
off his arms and ankles and went on.
“Eeyowerowyarrh!” he yelled.
He charged toward Maeberle’s offices in a
stuccoed ’dobe building behind a New York
street set. Maybe the machine was there.
Perry heard Maeberle, screaming. “Keep
him away from there. Tie him up. Kill him.
Everybody gets a five-hundred dollar War
Bond if he’s stopped. Remember your coun¬
try!”
Perry did a high jump over a band of mid¬
gets and left his interference to mop up.
Elatedly, he reached the door of Maeberle’s
office. He suddenly strangled as a midget
leaped on him from behind. Two more pulled
in opposite directions on his legs.
^PIEY were tr yi n g hard for their War
Bonds, their intention, apparently, being
THE GIANT RUNT 39
to pin him down like Gulliver.
“Patriotic!” Perry thought bitterly. He
shook the midget off his back, grabbed at the
hair of the other two. They screamed and
let go and Perry went inside. He whirled
in a circle, saw nothing that conceivably
could have been the machine he sought.
Something tugged at his trouser cuffs. He
turned.
“Wilma! How’d you get there?”
“It’s a good thing I came,” she retorted.
“The machine’s in here.”
She hurriedly led him into the farthest of¬
fice, and thrust aside drapes from a window¬
less alcove.
Perry’s breath stopped as he looked at the
machinery.
It was a patchwork. It was balanced on a
scarred, wheeled metal table. The copper and
silver ball electrodes canted at the wrong
angle, the condensers had been filched from
an ancient model radio, as had the de Forest
tubes sprinkled through the machine.
The gasoline generator and transformer
were hooked firmly to the middle shelf of
the table, but the instrument board, replete
with rheostat and amplifier, hung to the body
of the apparatus by a complex of tangled, in¬
sulated wires.
Wilma saw his stricken expression. “Don’t
back down now, Perry,” she begged. “It will
work. No matter how bad it looks. Maeberle
can do anything. You see, he was planning
to save himself and his friends, if things got
too bad.”
“Never mind,” said Perry, grimly.
He grabbed the edge of the table and rolled
it shakily to the outer door.
Outside, midgets were yelling and scream¬
ing. Perry’s men were stretched out in a line
three and four deep, protecting the doorway.
Maeberle was in the rear of his employees,
urging them on frantically. The combatants
were going at it with sticks, fists, stones. They
were kicking, gouging, rolling on the ground
and pounding each other’s heads.
Beyond this battle scene, midgets, several
scores of them, were lying crumpled motion¬
less; or in some cases, squirming feebly.
At three different places on the walls, Perry
saw midgets operating cameras. The cameras
were whirring, and were apparently mounted
on roller skates. Maeberle, Perry thought,
would probably have cameras at his own
death-scene.
He pulled the machine over the threshold
and onto the dusty compound, while Wilma
scampered excitedly around him. The inter-
ferring vibration would not work through
solid walls. Instead of spearing toward the
apex of the dome, it would be shorted back
to the ground.
Two of Maeberle’s desperately battling
midgets got through. They had War Bond
fever written all over them. Perry picked
them up and tossed them back where they
came from.
He started the generator, which roared and
shook the table in such a manner that it was
plain the vibration would shortly shake the
whole machine apart. Perry’s face whitened.
The tubes slowly awoke to life, flickered. The
apparatus was working on direct current.
The sighting mechanism of Maeberle’s odd
creation consisted of a shiny stove pipe, with
two lenses inserted at either end. It balanced
itself on a knife edge. Perry rotated the
sighter until it would channel the burst of
live power which should erupt from the sec¬
ondary coils—should erupt, but very likely
wouldn’t. Not from this patchwork.
“Watch out!” Wilma screamed.
Perry looked up in time to see a bronzed,
lithe figure clad in a flowery bandanna hand¬
kerchief launch itself from the eaves of the
roof overhead. Fitz-Roy’s long hair flowed
backward in the wind of his flight. Fitz-Roy
was Tarzan, flinging himself from a treetop
to battle with Perry Wren, the Monster Man.
At least, that was the picture flowing through
Perry’s brain. And nobody, not even a mon¬
ster man, could stand up against Tarzan. Not
even Perry Wren. Or could he ?
At the last second, a strangled cry leaped
from his throat. Fitz-Roy’s purpose was to
upset the machine. Perry’s hands shot for¬
ward, wrapped around Fitz-Roy’s waist. Fitz¬
Roy stopped in his flight, his powerful little
legs futilely lashing.
Perry began to squeeze. Fitz-Roy’s eyes
popped. Mortal fright crossed his face.
“Please!” he screamed. “I won’t do it
again. I promise. Leggo!”
W®ERRY gently set him down. Fitz-Roy
ran with a whimper. Perry looked after
him blankly, and then turned back to the
machine. It was set. He was ready to flip
the tab. The interferring vibration would
lance out toward the roof of the bubble. If
the machine worked, of course. Then why
didn’t he flip the tab? A terrible, clammy
agony took hold of him.
He was afraid the machine would work!
He closed his eyes while perspiration
bathed him, while the battle continued with
unrelenting fury around him. His thoughts
revolted him. For the last four weeks, he
had been great, famous, a beloved tyrant
ruling his people wisely and well, laughing
40 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
and suffering when they laughed and suffered.
Now he was to destroy all that, to lose his
kingdom, his greatness. He would be a runt
again.
An outrageous thought came whispering
to him deep from the dark cellars of his mind.
“I’ll accidentally topple the machine.”
“Perry!” Wilma’s cry was a wail. “Please
hurry! They’re breaking through!”
They were breaking through! Maeberle’s
midgets, well fed, well paid, and with a War
Bond to spur them on, were forcing a way
toward him.
Perry saw his own fighters, battling tooth
and nail.
“They trust me,” he thought. “No matter
what happens to me, I can’t go back on
them.”
He turned toward the machine with a
groan of pain. His hand darted out. He
flipped the tab which sent current through
the electrodes.
There was one breathless moment of in¬
action. Then silver fire rippled through the
machine, an aura of flame enclosing it in
molten beauty—and abruptly the machine
burst apart.
It exploded!
Perry cowered back from that terrifying
spectacle. But not without undergoing a
pounding, joyous sensation of triumph. Just
before the explosion, a cylindrical flare of
sparkling incandescence had speared upward
through the sky like a green sword—up
through the sky toward the apex of the
dome.
CHAPTER VIII
From the Ashes of the Old
UICK as a flash, around Perry, an as¬
tounding miracle took place. People
sprang magically to towering sizes, normal
sizes!
He heard gurgled cries of men suddenly
being throttled by their own constricting
clothing. They roared, screamed. And those
who were fortunate enough not to be choked
into unconsciousness ripped their clothing
from their bodies.
The fighting had stopped. Perry stood for
a long moment, looking at the machine that
Maeberle had built. Miracle Man Maeberle!
The machine was a fantastic mass of molten
steel and glass and tangled wires. But it had
accomplished its purpose.
The dome was gone!
Looking at the madhouse that was being
enacted around him, Perry was glad that part
of his instructions to his midgets before they
had swarmed over the wall had been to
loosen their clothing.
“Okay, Perry.” The voice crackled with
excitement. “What next?”
Perry turned and recognized one of his
midgets. Only he was no longer a midget.
He was a six-footer.
Others of his men came crowding around.
Orders poured from Perry’s lips from force
of long habit.
“Rip the clothing off all those people,” he
commanded. He gestured to those who were
twitching on the ground, their faces turning
blue. Among these, some distance away, were
actresses and extra girls who had not, natur¬
ally, participated in the conflict. They had
been wearing stiff, starchy clothing which
Maeberle had had made for this picture.
Those men who had been in the battle
Perry left where they were. They were in a
state of shock, with broken heads and arms,
from cruelly blackened eyes and bruised
bodies.
“Get blankets,” Perry snapped. “All you
can find. Wrap these people up. Hurry!”
He entirely forgot Wilma, in the necessity
of bringing order out of chaos. He forgot
Maeberle—until suddenly a half dozen of
Wren’s men appeared, dragging Maeberle
along the compound. Maeberle was strug¬
gling, swearing furiously.
One of the men holding him spoke mur¬
derously.
“We’ll see what Perry Wren has to say
about you, you rat.”
A lump grew in Perry’s throat. He blinked
and lowered his head, to keep these men,
these six-footers, from seeing the sudden
mist in his eyes. He thought in awe:
“Size doesn’t seem to make any difference.
They took orders from me and they didn’t
even notice I was a runt—or they didn’t
attach any importance to it. To them, I’m
still their leader, and now they’re bringing
Maeberle to me for judgment.”
Maeberle shook himself free with a roar.
“What’s the meaning of this? I’m not sore
at you any more, Perry. We’ve succeeded!
What an ‘epicture!’” His sweating face
glowed with pride. He drew a tattered rem¬
nant of his clothing around his body. “That
scene where you let go with a blast of green
flame from the machine—I’ll write that into
the script, see ? We’ve got a hit. Wilma War¬
ren will be a national sensation.”
“Here goes,” Perry muttered. Although
Maeberle was some six feet two as he stood.
THE GIANT RUNT
Perry took no time to compute relative
sizes. His fist crescendoed all the way from
his ankles. It was thunder and lightning
when it hit Maeberle’s battleship jaw.
Maeberle’s expression turned stupid. He
tottered. He whirled in stick-like fashion;
and then folded up like a string.
Perry looked down at the twitching body,
swallowing. Had he, the runt, actually done
that?
“Airplane!”
Somebody yelled the word. Perry looked
upward, saw the red and green tail-lights of
the craft as it swooped low. The pilot throt¬
tled the engine in a series of excited, cough¬
ing beats.
GLAD pulse started beating in Perry’s
body. Contact with the outside had been
made. Power, food, water would start pour¬
ing in. The menace was over.
Perry suddenly found himself in the mid¬
dle of a crowd of his men. They were laugh¬
ing, excited. Now that the adventure was
over, they were reviewing its more ludicrous
aspects with chuckling intonations. Perry
started to elbow his way through, but some¬
body suddenly grabbed him. There was a
whirling moment when he didn’t know what
was happening. Then he found himself on
somebody’s shoulders, elevated high above
the crowd. A roar of joyous laughter swept
the compound as Perry blinked. Somebody
started a song, and everybody else took it up:
“For he’s a jolly good fellow—”
He sat there while the stirring homage
rang out, his thoughts in turmoil. He re¬
membered the last weeks, when he had been
a giant and they had been runts. He had
sympathized, tried to help them when he
could have lorded it over them. And now he
knew that those weeks had proved something
to him that he wouldn’t forget. He wasn’t
any less a man just because he was a runt.
His height was simply characteristic of him,
like red hair, or a quick brain, or—well, or a
Tarzan-like body such as Fitz-Roy had.
He struggled to the ground as a remem¬
brance came to him. Wilma!
41
“I’ve got somebody I want to see,” he
chattered in explanation as he elbowed
through the crowd of cheering men. There
was a roar of laughter.
“She’s over there,” somebody said.
Perry walked slowly toward her. She was
on her knees, packing blankets around an
unconscious man. She looked up.
Her lips parted.
“You were wonderful. Perry,” she said
huskily.
She came to her feet.
She towered over him.
Perry staggered back.
Wilma Warren was nearly six feet tall!
He digested that fact, while a stunned feel¬
ing grew inside of him. Nearly six feet tall,
he was thinking. Five feet seven came closer
to it, maybe. He felt that he should be hor¬
rified. He felt that he should feel his life
was ruined. He should scream out loud that
fate had dealt Perry Wren, the runt, another
dirty deal. But somehow—
Wilma flinched, her glorious eyes trou¬
bled. A soft flush spread on her tender fea¬
tures.
“It—it doesn’t make any difference, does it.
Perry?” Her voice was frightened. “Not—
not if we love each other?”
Somehow it didn’t make any difference!
He loved Wilma, and she loved him, and that
was what mattered, and it was just as Fabri-
cus had said. Perry had learned a lesson he
wouldn’t forget. A new Perry Wren had
risen from the ashes of the old, a Perry Wren
who had a new tolerance, a new understand¬
ing, a bigger mind! He was proud of that,
suddenly. And he was proud that he knew
Fabricus, because Fabricus’ force-dome, with
a few improvements added by Fabricus after
he got well, was going to prove a powerful
factor in the winning of the war. . . .
But right now, there was only one thing
he wanted to do. He wanted to chase the
fright out of Wilma’s eyes. He wanted to
comfort her, to take her in his arms, to tell
her he loved her.
He did. He kissed her. And they didn’t
find any technical difficulties at all.
COMING NEXT ISSUE
THE ETERNAL NOW
An Amazing Complete Novelet of the Fourth Dimension
By MURRAY LEINSTER
AND MANY OTHER STORIES
‘‘(bheaminql' (Down.
AXIS PLANES
By SAM MERWIN, JR.
HE SKY looked almost as black for
America as for Western Europe in the
early summer of 1940. The Nazi hordes
were overrunning supposedly impregnable
Allied defense positions as if they were built
of cheese.
Whenever a new defense was improvised,
Luftwaffe bombers and fighters would de¬
molish it, usually before the men on the
ground caught sight of a German uniform.
David B. Parkinson, then twenty-nine years
old and employed by the Bell Telephone
Laboratories as a physicist for only two years,
was as worried as the rest of us about how
to stop the deluge of war. He was so worried,
in fact, that not even sleep could banish
his fears.
His dreams were of the battle overseas. One
of them, in particular, stood out. It was a
Black Terror of a dream, in which, using an
electrical device conceived in the fourth di¬
mension, he manned an anti-aircraft gun that
shot down a German bomber with every shot.
Most of us dismiss such dreams as hogwash
when we awaken. But not Parkinson. It oc¬
curred to his trained physicist’s mind that
there were factors in his fantastic sleep-born
gadget that might be translated into reality.
So Parkinson rolled up his sleeves and went
to work.
The Fantastic
Invention
Conceived by
David B. Parkinson
in His Sleep
Becomes a Deadly
Reality at
Tunisia, Italy
and
Guadalcanal
Late last autumn, the actu¬
ality was unveiled to the press
for the first time in a special
show put on by an anti-air¬
craft battery on the grounds
of the Bell Laboratories at
Summit, New Jersey. Known
to the Army, Navy and Ma¬
rine Corps as the M9 elec¬
trical gun director, it not only
uses electrical computations to predict the
path of enemy bombers, but also aims the guns
automatically and sets the fuses of the shells
to explode at just the right altitude.
Superficially, the new fire control instru¬
ment looks much like the mechanical devices
already in use for this purpose. Inside, how¬
ever, it is a horse of another feather. Previous
fire control gadgets used trains of cams and
gears to translate movements of telescopic
sights and dial adjustments into terms of pre¬
dicted positions of the target at the time
of shellburst.
Parkinson’s invention eliminates the me¬
chanical train and uses, instead, an electrical
hookup, which is even more accurate and
sensitive, since it includes variable factors
no mechanical devices can pick up. In short,
it stays on the target automatically once it
has found it.
Electrical Hook-up Best
Elimination of the metallic cams, shafts and
gears of the mechanical train does away with
one source of error, since mechanical gadgets
can always break down or go awry. Further¬
more, temperature changes cause expansion
and contraction of metal parts, but have vir¬
tually no effect on the new electrical mech¬
anism.
Furthermore, it works smoothly, without
the sudden, jerky changes hitherto necessary
in making quick range alterations. By the
time the instrument’s final integration begins
to swing the heavy guns, the changes have
become even and steady, corresponding to the
actual motion of the target in the air.
In the only statement so far released by the
Army about the effectiveness of the new fire
control apparatus, it is said that Parkinson’s
invention when employed to direct fire against
a towed sleeve target, enabled the guns al¬
most invariably to tear the sleeve to ribbons
under all conditions.
Scoffed at AA Fire
Back in the days of the first World War,
German anti-aircraft guns were referred to
contemptuously as “archies” by Allied pilots,
who literally thumbed their noses at the pos¬
sibility of ground fire damaging their planes.
On the Allied side, according to Major Gen¬
eral Levin H. Campbell Jr., Chief of Ord¬
nance, “We used to hit German planes—not
knock them down, mind you—at the rate of
one for every seventeen thousand rounds of
ammunition.”
No wonder the Bishops, Guynemers, Richt¬
hofens and Rickenbackers worried little about
fire from the ground. If they were shot at
ten times a trip, they could make 1,700 trips,
or one a day for more than five years, before
43
44
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
the law of averages caught up with them and
their planes were hit—and even then, it was a
one-in-five chance they wouldn’t be badly
damaged.
And guns fired then at only a fraction of the
rate they use today, when every Bofors
weapon in action carries extra barrels to be
screwed into place in a few seconds when the
one in use is burned out by the rapid rate of
fire. They had to set fuses by hand, without
the aid of computers, had largely to guess
the height of the target and the time it would
take the shell to get up there.
Fire Shells in Clips
Today, all but the heaviest anti-aircraft
cannon are automatic and fire shells in clips
of from ten to a thousand. With Parkinson’s
fire control device in operation, they are
aimed automatically at a target that may be
hidden behind miles of clouds, and the fuses
are set without human guesswork. In fact,
there is darned little guesswork in it.
The invention is not always infallible.
Sometimes a plane can get away. But its
results are attested to by Lieutenant General
Alexander A. Vandergrift, who commanded
the Marine landings on both Guadalcanal and
Bougainville in the Solomons.
“Using ninety-millimeter cannons,” says the
general, “Wb knocked down enemy planes
within range at the rate of one for every
ninety rounds of ammunition used.”
That’s quite a comedown from one hit per
17,000 rounds. And when one of those 90-
millimeter jobs explodes close to a plane, it
isn’t just a hit—it’s curtains. Along with
this, when one considers the rapid rate of fire
of modern anti-aircraft weapons, it doesn’t
give an enemy plans a very long life once it
comes within range.
The 90-millimeter cannon is the current
standard heavy anti-aircraft weapon for the
Army. It can hurl its 26-pound projectile to
a height of 11,000 yards, or over six miles in
the air, which means that only the highest
flying planes can stay out of its reach.
This was considered high enough until re¬
cent precision bombing successes achieved by
our heavy bombers over Europe at even
greater altitudes suggested that the enemy
might take a leaf from our book and start
bombing from up in the attic himself.
"A Honey of a Gun"
The result is a brand new anti-aircraft
cannon now beginning to roll off the assembly
lines which General Campbell calls “a honey
of a gun.” It is a 4.7 inch or 120-millimeter
affair, and its ceiling is a little matter of
twelve miles—far, far above the ceiling of
the highest altitude planes now in the air or
on the designers’ tables of any nation.
Coupled with Parkinson’s amazing predictor
—range finder—gun pointer—fuse setter, it
suggests that the lot of the bomber in the
future will not be as happy as it is today when
interceptors are not present to drive him from
the target aloft.
Parkinson’s dream was one dream which
has been put to immediate use against the
foes of liberty—to their sorrow.
HORATIUS
AT THE
BRIDGE
FRANK FERRY
The Pied Piper of Hamelin Had Nothing on Little Sophus
Josephus, Musician Extraordinary with the Absolute Pitch!
I ’M NO public benefactor. It’s simply
that I get cold feet now and then—
like when somebody starts playing a
flute, for example. For to me, a flute isn’t
just something that goes “wheesh” or
“whoosh” or “feesh” at the wrong time.
It’s a wicked little thing that gives me—
well, the creeps.
Let’s go back a bit to the peculiar, odd, or
just plain unfortunate day when the famous
Tacoma Narrows Bridge came crashing
down. Of course you remember. It was in
the papers and in the newsreels. The only
structure of its kind, a novelty suspension
bridge. For more than a year they studied
the problems of wind-resistance, stress and
strain, and all the rest. The wind is notori¬
ous at the Tacoma Narrows.
And the darn thing fell down. Why?
They said it was the exceptionally high
A PRIZE-WINNING AMATEUR CONTEST STORY
46 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
wind, thgt some metal plates offered too
much wind-resistance, that the bridge was
too narrow. Oh, they had a lot of reasons.
But remember this: they had a model of
the bridge in the engineering department of
the University of Washington. And they
tested it. And the eminent professor of
aerodynamics said it was okay, so they
went ahead and built the bridge.
Yet, it fell down. Like a giant whip,
those tons of steel and concrete snapped
and twisted and writhed—and then went
plop into the bay. And it fell down under
highly interesting, if not suspicious, circum¬
stances.
But anyway, I was down at the Public
Safety Building, several months after the
bridge went. As a reporter on the Seattle
Star, I was keeping tabs on things in town;
and one of my tabs was Sergeant McBride.
It was about eight o’clock in the evening.
McBride was propped up behind the desk
involved in a detective magazine, and every
so often sneezing like fury. He had a cold—
a large, determined cold, just like himself.
I was hanging around mostly because
I had a tip that Wung Low’s gambling
joint was being raided, and there might
be a story, or some story. I had the night to
kill.
There were a lot of stories around Seattle,
even then. We had all kinds of foreigners,
we had merchant-marine sailors, we had lum¬
berjacks, we had sin on a large scale, and we
had graft. You couldn’t miss.
So I was in a chair across the room from
McBride, matching dimes with myself, and
hoping something would break. And then
this guy came in the door, and stopped
before McBride.
He was a little, soggy guy with a mop
of black hair, and he was anywhere from
thirty to a hundred years old. He had on
the remains of a dress suit, and he wore a
crafty, I-ate-the-cream look on his puss.
I wondered where he got the flute.
Then the guy piped up.
“Ah! The policemans, no?”
McBride, I saw, was right in the middle
of a good case, and justly resented any in¬
terference. He put down the magazine and
scowled.
“What you want?” And he wasn’t pleased
with what he saw.
“The policemans.” The little guy had that
look-what-I-did smugness on his face, mixed
with scorn.
I had moved forward, occupying the space
at McBride’s left. I looked up at him and
raised my eyebrows.
“You got the police,” McBride pointed out.
“Ah, good! Then I will tell you all about
it, I will tell you how I pull down the so
famous Tacoma Narrows Bridge.”
“Aw, fudge!” exploded McBride. “You
blew it down with your little w’istle. G’wan,
scram. I’m busy.” And he went back to his
magazine.
So I put my oar in.
“So you pulled down the bridge, huh?
How’d you do it?” I thought it might be
good for one of those human interest things
we have to do now and then.
HTHE little guy was affable and pleased
m about an audience.
“As the policemans say, with my flute—
not whistle,” he corrected.
“Yeah?”
“Certainly, I do not lie. Behold!” he
said, getting warmed up. “You know it is
possible to break metal with sound from a
violin, that they say one can stand on a large
bridge, and play the right note, and then—
crash! Down she come!”
“You’re telling me,” I said, keeping a
straight face.
“And of a surety you know that soldiers
crossing a bridge must change pace, must
break step, or they find the soul of the
bridge and break it down . . .”
“Soul?” I had him pegged as a religious
fanatic then, since the Pacific Coast crawls
with ’em.
“Yes, soul. The—the note, the pitch that
you find, that you kill... You find this note,
you make it respond—and then she breaks,
no?” He was getting a bit involved.
“Your deal.”
He was getting mad, and his eyes were
sort of hot and nasty.
“You laugh,” he growled deep in his throat.
“I will show you.” And he reached up onto
McBride’s desk and grabbed a water glass,
placing it carefully on a corner, where it
balanced rather precariously.
“Hey!” yelled McBride. “What’s goin’ on?
I thought I told you to scram!”
“Wait, Mac,” I said, giving him the wink,
“the professor here’s going to give us a dem¬
onstration of how to break a glass with a
flute.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. He’s going to play his whistle, and
break the glass with sound.”
“Yeah? Says who?”
“For Pete’s sake,” I begged, “let’s see the
show.” And I tipped the wink again, which
he finally got.
“Okay, professor, go on,” he said, “but you
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE
gotta buy me a new glass!” And he let out
a loud burst of noise that was supposed to
be laughter.
The little guy raised up and sneered at
“I am Professor Sophus Josephus, and I
will show you.”
He then unslung his flute, and started
playing. He could play all right, but noth¬
ing I ever heard before or since. It was
heavy and sweet like honey, it was bitter
and sour like lemon, it was like—well, like
nothing you can accurately describe.
Something told me to watch the glass, be¬
cause this something said that the glass
would break. So I watched it. And sud-
47
whacked McBride over the head with his
flute. He must have been high-strung.
There was nothing to do, of course. So
McBride locked him up. I don’t blame
McBride, because he didn’t know, and he
did have reason for being sore. Besides the
Professor bothering him, I mean. The raid
on the Chinese joint burned out, and
McBride was accused of tipping Wung Low
off. But he didn’t: I did.
I had more or less forgotten the Professor
and his flute until, a week or so later, I
picked up a very weird tale. I heard that
a guy had slipped out of the city jail, and
the police were keeping it under their hats,
because they didn’t know how the guy had
Wect the -Author of Dhis Story!
I WISH I could say I am green all over, and covered with pink, pale hair
because that would really be fun to hear; and would certainly set me off
from the rest of the people who try to make a living by writing. Confi¬
dentially, the difference between a writer and a non-writer is that writers
actually send stories off in the mails. I was once told by a Hollywood execu¬
tive that a writer is somebody who knows the right people. I should be
pleased to meet them.
What really ruined me for work, though, was having a little better than
four years of college, because all I did was absorb a lot of wonderfully con¬
vincing arguments as to why I should have people support me in idleness
rather than support myself in that ideal state. I also acquired a taste for
archaeology and social psychology.
I think I was born with a book in my mouth, since every time I was permitted a choice be¬
tween reading or perspiring with toil the book always won, hands down. I have the acquisitive
instinct polished to an exceedingly high degree.
The reason I write—if you are kind enough to permit that description—is because I once
told a shoal of people I was a writer. I told that to a very lovely girl a little while ago, and she
believed me. Now married to her, what else can I do ?—Frank Ferry.
Frank Ferry
denly I would swear, the glass shivered and
seemed to waver out of sight.
And just then, of course, McBride
sneezed—an earth-shaking, world-blasting
sneeze. And he either blew the glass off
the table or knocked it off, or shattered it
with the sneeze.
Anyway, the glass smashed on the floor.
“Oh!” I said.
“Ahrr!” said the Professor, “you—you
bloated pig!”
“What?” said McBride. And he came
from behind the desk like Doom, and
grabbed the Professor and shook him like a
rat. “You little runt, blast your hide! You
come in and mess around, and—” He ran
out of words.
“It isn’t as bad as that,” I started to say.
But the Professor, who had finally been re¬
leased, fixed it himself. Without a hint, he
got out. And further, that if the police told
what they thought were the facts, then
somebody’s neck would have been cut.
So I ’phoned McBride.
“How’s fishing, Mac?” I said. “This is
Larry.”
“Umph.”
“Well, I never! Say, Mac, remember that
peanut man there’s a reward for? Yeah?
Well, I’ll trade you dope for dope.” I just
made this up, because the case was hot and
would get McBride to talk—maybe.
“What peanut man?”
It was going to be tough.
“The ten-thousand buck peanut man.”
“Yeah? Just a minute. I’ll take the call on
another ’phone.”
So I waited. I decided to tell Mac the pea¬
nut man was down at a flop-house on Jack-
son. It was plausible, and would take some
48 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
time to confirm. Besides, how was I to
know but maybe the guy was there? Heck,
they pick guys up there all the time. You’d
be surprised.
STARRY?” Mac’s voice was low and cau-
“tious.
“Yeah. Well, who spills first? I want
the dope on the guy who sneaked out of the
can under circumstances I hear—”
“What you talking about?”
“The bird who flew the coop. Come on,
Mac, they won’t know.”
“Well—where’s the peanut man?”
He was practically hooked, so I decided
to trust him.
“Down at this flop-house,” and I gave the
name. “He’s dyed his hair black, and is
wearing a beard. They call him Wilkins.”
I had my fingers crossed. It was possible.
“Straight-—?”
“As your hair.” Mac was almost bald.
There was a pause.
“Okay, but I’ll have your hide if you’re
playing games. So I’ll give you the dope:
the guy who got out was your Professor
with the w’istle.”
“What?”
“Yeah, and dust out your ears—some of
the bars were gone!”
“Gone! What d’ya mean. Did he eat
them?”
“Listen, you,” and I could tell he was a bit
peeved. “I’m giving it straight. Some of
the steel bars were gone.”
“. . . like smoke?”
“Like smoke. And is the old man sore!”
I knew Mac had felt the wrath.
“How about a look? That’s some story.”
“Oh yeah? You come down here snoop¬
ing, and I’ll pin your ears to your neck. And
keep your mouth closed where you heard
this.” He paused again. “So he calls himself
Wilkins, huh, and wears a beard? Thanks,
pal, I won’t forget you.” And he rang off.
But I had things to think about. If Mac
had it right—if the Professor had fixed the
bridge—if . . . Well, if a lot of things, then
here was a story. Holy cats! What a story!
I went out to the University and had a
talk with the aerodynamics fellow. All I got
was a lot of highly scientific eye-wash; the
authority still was sensitive about the
bridge’s failure. I hinted about steel bars
and sound waves. But it was no soap—he
just smiled.
So I tried to sneak into the city jail, and
have a look. But I got tossed out on my
ear.
Then I went to the old man. It was a
mistake. He looked at me.
“My boy,” he said, “this is a newspaper.
If you were a reporter you would keep your
big, blue eyes open! McBride caught the
peanut man—”
“With a beard, by the name of Wilkins?”
“Yeah. You must be psychic. With a
beard.”
But the Professor wouldn’t let me forget
about it; I don’t know how he found out my
name, but a couple of months after he left
Seattle, I got a letter.
“Mr. Larry Jenkins,” it said, “they will not
believe that I destroyed the wonderful Ta¬
coma Narrows Bridge, and that I escaped
from the so famous Seattle jail.” It went on
like that some more. And then it said, “I
have work so hard improving my technique,
and now I break from many jails. But you
believe me, and I will show you and the
world. For soon, friend Larry, I shall make
the so magnificent San Francisco bridge to
come down, the Golden Gate Bridge . . .”
This was rather strong. The Golden Gate
Bridge is somewhat larger than the Tacoma
bridge, and would make a bigger splash. But
why suspension bridges—or did he mean to
stop even there? Then I decided I was
getting slightly mushy, and I gave the whole
thing a miss.
That is, until I ran across a story.
Spokane, Washington, A.P.
It is reported without confirmation that
a certain Professor Sophus Josephus es¬
caped from the city jail today, under un¬
revealed circumstances. An unidentified
authority stated that an investigation was
being conducted. Sheriff Jones promised
recapture of the fugitive within twenty-
four hours.
And then, like tales began dropping in
from all over the state. Yakima, Sunnyside,
Olympia. The reports began to use the
words “mysterious, peculiar, strange . . .”
They were unconnected, backpage items, and
I wouldn’t have paid too much attention, ex¬
cept that the Professor sent me a handful
of clippings.
I almost went to the old man—but remem¬
bered some local stories I’d missed. Instead,
I started watching the teletype. And I learned
things. Now, the reports began dropping in
from cities in Oregon—Portland, Eugene,
Rosedale. The Professor seemed to be head¬
ing south. After a while, the reports started
having California datelines. But nobody
seemed to pay much attention, or connect
things up.
Over a period of a little more than eight
months, the Professor “got” out of around
HORATIUS AT
fifty assorted jails. The time lapse might be
why nobody got wise.
I began to get a little excited. So I took
a list of these reports to the old man, and
asked him what he thought.
He told me. So I kissed him good-by. And
the same day, I got another letter from the
Professor. It was really hot, this time. He
was in the San Francisco jug, and did I want
to come down and watch the Golden Gate
Bridge fold up.
I told myself that I really couldn’t stop
him, and it would be a whale of a story—if
anybody would believe me. But I didn’t con¬
sider that. I took the next plane to ’Frisco.
fkF COURSE, the San Francisco coppers
wanted to know who I was and why I
wanted to see a nobody like the Professor;
and besides, he got violent now and then,
and might throw things.
I took that as my clue. I claimed to be a
psychology student from the University of
Washington, and knew something about such
cases. And on top of that, the Professor’s old
mother had asked me to see how he was. I
don’t know why, but that got the desk ser¬
geant.
They took me to where the Professor was,
and before he could let any stray cats loose,
I started talking wildly about the weather,
and wasn’t San Francisco a wonderful town,
and so on. Finally the guard got tired and
started dozing in a chair some distance away.
So then I asked the Prof how long he was
in for, and when the big show was coming.
He grinned. “They say I am bad, and
must stay here a whole long time.” And he
winked. “The big show, my friend, will be
when you say.”
I must have looked unconvinced. He fixed
me with his eye.
“What o’clock is it now? Ten hours, good.
Now, you will take yourself back to your
hotel, and I will to meet you there at—let
us say high noon.”
So I told him where I was staying, and
agreed to be waiting. Then I beat it for my
hotel and watched the telephone like a cat.
At one minute past twelve o’clock, high
noon, the telephone rang. It was the desk-
clerk. And there was a—ah—a person to see
me.
Well, having the Professor show up like
that was pretty strong evidence. As we met
in the lobby, I congratulated him, and he was
swelled up like a toad.
And if this got me excited, it was capped
as we rode along in a taxi, headed for the
Golden Gate Bridge. Just by accident, the
THE BRIDGE 49
cabby drove us past the city jail where the
Professor had been. It looked like a con¬
vention, with coppers and plainclothes dicks
running in and out like mad, all looking wor¬
ried and red-faced.
I caught a glimpse of a guy looking out of
an upper window. All the windows around
it had heavy bars, but this one didn’t seem
to have.
The Professor had seen it too, and he
smiled and nodded. I was sold.
And I saw headlines splashed over the
papers: “Exclusive by Larry Jenkins:—To¬
day I saw the mighty Golden Gate Bridge
go crashing down into the sea below. It was
a beautiful day . . .”
But here we were at the bridge. I paid
the cabby off, and the Professor and I started
off along the abutment to one side of the
bridge.
It was a magnificent view. At our left was
the ocean reaching out of sight, and at our
right was the expanse of the Bay, with Oak¬
land, and Richmond sparkling in the sun¬
shine. There was the Island, and Nob Hill,
and Fisherman’s Wharf. Whether it was the
view or the fresh breeze I don’t know: but
I was shivering. And my feet were getting
cold.
I looked down at the water. About a mil¬
lion miles down was the water. It looked aw¬
fully wet and deep. It looked unpleasant, and
it looked expectant, like it was waiting for
the bridge and everything on it.
I wanted that story. It was the chance of
a life-time. In fact, I was so hipped-up I
might have been drunk. I felt, rather than
knew that the wind had gone up a bit, and
there was a lot of traffic on the bridge. It
could have been one or the other.
But the Professor placed the flute to his
lips and got out a series of weird squeaks.
And then my heart stopped and the hair rose
on my head—the huge bridge had shivered
slightly!
Already seeing geysers of salt water as the
bridge came crashing down, all thoughts of
exclusive stories fled. I had cold feet. It was
enough for me.
With a sick grin on my face, and not ex¬
actly knowing what I did, I took the flute out
of the Professor’s hands. I tried to make it
sound convincing.
“Let me do it, Prof.”
At the same time I raised it to my lips,
and pretended to prepare to play.
But I had got him between the eyes.
“No!” he screamed, suddenly, and with¬
out warning. “You will cheat me of my
glory! Give me the flute!” And he grabbed
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
50
for it. Well, it only took a second, and then
I gave it back, not saying a word.
With a snort, and with anger still in his
eyes, he put it back to his mouth and started
playing again.
This time, though, the quality was changed,
but he didn’t seem to notice.
I died quietly for a breath or two, then
gradually came back to life. I’d lost a story
—but I’d saved innocent people. I thumbed
my nose at the defeated ocean.
Then I watched the Professor, but not
with a sense of impending doom.
He was having trouble. He would tootle
like mad, and then glare at the flute. He
would look apologetically at me, and then
tootle again. I felt sorry for him—but, story
or no story, I wasn’t going to be a witness
to any such destruction.
And then the Professor went crazy, sud¬
denly and wildly, as insane, high-strung peo¬
ple da One minute he tweeted the flute, and
the next minute he was jumping up and down
screaming his head off. There was something
about the flute being “deviled.”
The thing hadn’t come off as it should.
|T WAS rather difficult getting the raving
Professor to a hospital, and explaining
my presence to the doctor. But I made up a
plausible tale that Mr. Jones had I were
seeing the sights, and Mr. Jones had got an¬
other one of his “spells.” Did I know him?
Well, not very well. We were both from
New York, and had met as strangers do.
And then I got out of there and began to
kick myself for funking out. I told myself
I’d merely been kidding myself, and the Prof
was a fake. But it didn't sound convincing.
And there was another angle: I didn’t have
any story I could sell. I wondered if I’d
done the right thing in queering the flute;
it took just a minute to twist the set-screw,
and throw it off of the track. I figured
if he could kill the “soul” in steel bars
or cables or metal, that he did it with pat¬
terns of notes that he’d learned, and with
these patterns getting certain sympathetic
responses.
I’m no physicist, but that’s what I figured.
And that’s how I worked it. By changing
the set-screw, he got another, different set of
notes and overtones and harmonics—the
wrong set. I don’t know why he didn’t notice
it, but then he might have been too excited.
Lord knows I was. And he didn’t locate the
key-note of the bridge, and couldn’t build up
the right pattern.
At least, it was my opinion that I’d worked
it that way. And the more I thought of it,
as I hung around San Francisco, the more I
wondered.
I decided to see the Professor, and find out.
Well, I might have known. When I had
talked my way past the nurses and doctors—
this time I was the Professor’s nephew—and
got to the old boy, it was all off. He had no
use for flutes, didn’t know what they were.
He was thoroughly boiled.
The Professor fixed me with his fevered
eye.
“Ah! You talk about this thing—this flute
is it not? Pah! What is a flute! You say it
goes ‘squeak squeak squeak,’ like a little bird.
A little bird! I laugh, I scorn it. Now, I
show you something.” He came back with a
huge brassy thing. “Behold, my friend, here
is a something, here is . . .”
So I left. He was off on another tack. This
time, it was a tuba.
Next Issue: BLOATED BBAIN, by Alfred G. Kuehn,
Another Prize-Winning Amateur Contest Story!
Many Never Suspect
Cause of Backaches
This Old Treatment Often Brings Happy Relief
Many sufferers relieve nagging backache
quickly, once they discover that the real cause
of their trouble may be tired kidneys.
The kidneys are Nature’s chief way of taking
the excess acids and waste out of the blood.
They help most people pass about 3 pints a day.
When disorder of kidney fimction permits
poisonous matter to remain in your blood, it
may cause nagging backache, rheumatic pains,
leg pains, loss of pep and energy, getting up
nights, swelling, puffiness under the eyes, head¬
aches and dizziness. Frequent or scanty pas¬
sages with smarting and burning sometimes
shows there is something wrong with your kid¬
neys or bladder.
Don’t wait! Ask your druggist for Doan’s
Pills, used successfully by millions for over 40
years. They give happy relief and will help the
IS miles of kidney tubes flush out poisonous
waste from your blood. Get Doan’s Pills.
(Adv.)
PLEASE PAGE SAMSON
A LL of the prehistoric fossils do not
come from the Gobi Desert or the tar
Makes of Los Angeles and elsewhere.
In January of this year a modern monster—
a stone crusher—bit deeply into a section
of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, and
came up with a twenty-inch section of jaw¬
bone containing fifty-three teeth.
Scientists at once went to work on this
specimen at the Philadelphia Academy of
Natural Sciences and have reconstructed a
twenty-foot crocodile-like reptile that in¬
habited Pennsylvania swamps some two hun¬
dred million years ago, in the Triassic period.
The fossil was identified by Dr. Edwin H.
Colbert as being the jawbone of a Clepsy-
saurus, a genus of reptiles similar but not
ancestral to the modern cocodile. They were
leading citizens of the animal world just be¬
fore the later family of dinosaurs, dying out
as the dinosaurs, increased in power and in-
teligence. But what a weapon for Samson
this jawbone would have made!
GERM ROGUES GALLERY
H ARD on the heels of the electron micro¬
scope comes the New Chemical Analyzer,
developed by Dr. James Hillier of the Radio
Corporation of America.
Where the electron microscope magnifies
invisible viruses to 100,000 times their actual
size, the chemical analyzer now automatically
figures out just what they are composed of
by shooting electrical particles at the part of
the germ under observation.
Already some 26 of the 92 elements have
been thoroughly identified and now with the
attack started on germs, bacteria and infilter-
able viruses to determine their chemical con¬
stituency so that science can intelligently
combat the inimical sort, we may well be en¬
tering the final phase of the war between
man and virulent disease.
For example, science has known for years
that the tuberculosis germ is armored with
some sort of waxy coating that has never
been successfully penetrated because we
have not known exactly what it is. The
chemical analyzer will doubtless reveal just
what this protective coating is-—and science
will promptly develop the proper weapon of
offense.
Thus, the ramparts of disease may well be
defending their innermost citadel. In fact, we
may even find out soon just what hash is
made of.
GOOD-BY, MISSISSIPPI MUD
THE Hercules Powder Company comes
forward with an amazing development.
This is a chemical which may end muddy
streets and muddy roads—not to speak of
muddy and leaky cellars. This is a chemical
which is designed to prevent mud by making
soil waterproof.
It is a resin compound called Stabinol,
costing well under ten cents per pound to
produce and requiring only five pounds per
average square yard in application. The idea
is to make the top soil impervious to mois¬
ture, preventing water from seeping through
the treated soil and turning it into mud. It
also resists the rise of moisture from below
by capillary action. A soil treatment is esti¬
mated to last for years.
What a boon for areaways, airplane fields,
and other construction projects throughout
the world!
Thus, what water does not drain off a
treated area will remain in puddles until it
evaporates. A car splashing through such a
puddle will kick up dry dust and water—not
mud. Oh, Mother, where are my rubber
boots and the whiskbroom ? I’m going wad¬
ing with Skinnay!
SURGICAL BANKS NOW
■FOLLOWING close on the development
of blood plasma comes now surgical banks
of nerve tissue and living cartilage to be held
in store indefinitely for plastic surgery. This
dispenses with the old, somewhat hazardous,
painful and not always successful method of
taking cartilage grafts from the patient’s own
ribs.
Cartilage, for instance, is taken from the
cadavers of young and healthy persons ac¬
cidentally killed. It is cleaned and stored in
a solution of merthiolate and salt and kept
under refrigeration.
Lt. Col. Leslie L. Nunn, of the U. S. Army
A DEPARTMENT OF INTERESTING ODDITIES
61
52
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
Medical Department, has already established
two such banks for military use at present.
What with the new skin-slicing machine for
grafting, the electrically driven circle-saw
mounted on a pistol grip for the rapid re¬
moval of heavy plaster casts, the new sta¬
pling machine invented by Wilson and Spen¬
cer of Detroit for the rapid and uniform in¬
sertion of surgical stitches, etc., we will soon
have surgery on the production line.
Perhaps after the war we can totter in one
door of a mechanized hospital, get on the
assembly line and say to the doctor in charge,
“Please renovate my body according to plan
57BX9,” and come off the production line at
the other end as a brand-new model for
$10.98.
NEW HEARTS FOR OLD
WJ^THY not? As far back as some twenty
* " years ago your science editor remem¬
bers a scientifiction story which dealt with
just such an operation. Today this formerly
impossible feat of replacing an animal’s heart
has been accomplished by Professor N. P.
Sinitsin of the Gorky Medical Institute of
Moscow.
True, the animals thus far experimented on
have been frogs, but the experiments have
been sucessful, many of the subjects living
for months, with electrocardiagrams show¬
ing no difference in the muscle action of the
transplanted hearts from that of frog hearts
not transplanted.
The technique and the various experi¬
ments entail too much explanation to be in¬
cluded here, but this transplantation of vital
organs is on the way, following logically the
delicate operation of transplanting living
corneas from human eye to human eye.
Now if we can just hold out until Dr. Sinit¬
sin is ready for us maybe we won’t have to
get those old shoes re-soled.
HOME FRONT REPORT
■'WfcT'E READ almost daily in the newspa-
* ® pers about a scrap drive for this or that,
an appeal for Victory Gardens, and various
pleas to save one thing or another. But we
never see concrete figures on the results of
these drives. So let’s take a moment off from
scientific data and consider a few amazing
salvage figures.
In 1943 fully one-eleventh of all foodstuffs
produced in the United States came from
Victory Gardens. That is more than nine
percent of a lot of edible stuff—a record to
be proud of. Let’s beat it this year.
A 50 x 100 foot Victory Garden is. large
enough for a moderate-sized family. And
did you know that twelve hours of farm labor
will grow enough wheat for one person for
a year, while it takes 419 hours to raise
enough chickens for the same purpose? Also,
that there are more than 70 non-food indus¬
trial uses for sugar? Sugar is used even in
welding.
The scrap metal drive doesn’t stop with
civilians. The Armed Forces industriously
salvage metal scraps from battlefields. They
also systematically remove serviceable parts
from scrapped machines and assemble them
in a single working mechanism. And nearly
7,000,000 pounds of tin scrap are collected by
the Army each month.
One railroad system salvaged more than
1,000,000 pounds of discarded paper on its
trains in one year. Scrap rubber turned in
by the public since 1942, totaling some 750,-
000 tons, is being used at a rate of about 35,-
000 tons per month to make vital military
products and for recapping civilian auto tires.
Despite a record slaughter of meat ani¬
mals in 1943, the number of livestock on
farms increased during the year. Thus, meat
production this year is expected to reach the
record high of 25,000,000,000 pounds, dressed
weight basis. And giving housewives two
meat-fats ration points for each pound of
waste kitchen fats turned in has doubled the
weekly amount of fats available for war pur¬
poses.
There, are you proud of yourselves? Well,
let’s beat the records in 1944. Because from
twenty to thirty percent of all food produced
in this country is wasted somewhere between
the plow and the plate!
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH?
SINCE time immemorial man has sought
^ wistfully for some way to lengthen his
span of life. Don’t ask me why. The whole
thing is relative, and the result is just the
same in the end, whether the span is ten
years or ten hundred. But alchemists sought
SCIENTIFACTS 53
the elixir of eternal life and Ponce de Leon
sought the fountain of youth.
Comes now Dr. L. Emmett Holt, Jr., of
Johns Hopkins University, with the informa¬
tion that the elixir of youth exists in every¬
day protein foods, such as meat, cheese, eggs,
etc.
The substance that wards off senility is
called tryptophane, one of the dozens of es¬
sential building blocks of life known as the
amino acids. And Professor William J. Van
Wagendonk of Oregon State College an¬
nounces that certain muscular stiffness and
the deposits of calcium phosphate in all
organs and parts of the body are caused by
dietary deficiency in cream. This little build¬
ing block is one of the ketones, and it is a
preventive factory.
So it would seem that all we have to do is
maintain the proper diet—and drink fluor-
inated water for the preservation of teeth—
and we will remain on the highway of health.
Hand me the ration books, Papa; I’m going
shopping.
STRONG AND HEALTHY
1 *»7 - HILE we are in a vegetating frame of
®" mind, let us consider that bane of the
social register—the lowly onion. Perhaps
Grandma wasn’t so far wrong, after all, when
she made Dad wear a little bag of garlic or
asafetida about his neck to ward off disease.
Anyway, promising results have been ob¬
served from the use of onion paste as a sur¬
gical dressing for infected wounds.
Reported by Dr. Toroptsev and Dr. Fila¬
tova of the Tomsk State University, USSR,
the essential oils of onion, garlic and certain
other strong-scented vegetables contain bac-
teria-killing substances called phytoncides.
The vapors from ground-up onions, etc,
when brought to a wound relieved pain at
once and promoted rapid healing. Coupled
with the curative powers of the sulpha drugs,
it looks as though we can wear our vege¬
tables as well as eat them.
And another thing, Rosalie! Don’t turn
up your nose at the gent who sits besides
you in the train or on the bus because he
reeks of garlic or onion. He is likely the
most antiseptic person in the car.
CAR TROUBLE
WN SPITE of the curtailment of production
“■ by war, there are still more than 36,000,-
000 cars, buses and trucks—not including
military vehicles—running throughout the
world. This is only 8,000,000 less than at the
close of 1939.
And what do they run on?
In the first place, roads. It takes a ton of
dynamite to produce the material for sur¬
facing one mile of roadway. To mine the
metal used to make one small 1942-model
automobile requires a pound. And this does
not consider the millions of pounds of ex¬
plosive used each year in prospecting for
new petroleum sources, or increasing the
flow of old wells.
A process for extracting oil from shale was
patented in Scotland in 1853. Shale oil offers
great promise in supplementing petroleum,
yielding products almost identical. Oil-bear¬
ing shale is widely distributed about the
earth.
From consideration of which we go to rub¬
ber. Synthetic rubber production is now
greater than the rate of crude rubber con¬
sumption in America prior to 1941. How¬
ever, the supply is not yet sufficient to meet
the present demands. So ride easy for a
while yet.
Fuel? Zero octane gasoline may operate
automobiles in the future. A radical power
plant is already under development which
makes use of radiant energy from low-grade
fuels, according to Dr. Carlton H. Schles-
man, head of the research laboratories of the
Socony-Vacuum Oil Company.
On the other hand, there is solid fuel (dis¬
cussed last issue) and also the possibility of
alcohol. By modern processes fifty gallons
of alcohol is obtained from one ton af wood
waste.
All we need next is to take that successful
rocket plane the Allies have been experi¬
menting with and run it on the ground. We
mean that jet propulsion plane developed by
British Group Captain Frank Whittle which
passes a Spitfire like a “racehorse passing a
hack.” Why worry about gasoline and atomic
power?
Mac, hand me my plastic suit and light the
fuse in my tail ensemble. I’m going motor¬
ing in my heliocopter in 1950.
ARBOREAL GIANT AND DWARF
r THIS month’s nature lesson deals with
trees, perhaps man’s greatest inanimate
friend. There are 862 species of trees grow¬
ing in the United States, 228 varieties, and 87
hybrids—making a total of 1,177 different
kinds of trees. Of this astonishing number
only 104 varieties are of commercial impor¬
tance.
"Which brings to mind the amusing matter
of the Asiatic Paulownia, or Empress tree,
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
54
which was imported from Japan and is found
extensively in the Atlantic States. This tree
was regarded as a “sacred” tree by the Japs—
until 1912, at which time it was learned that
the tree is really of Chinese origin, not
Japanese.
The largest single tree in the world seems
to be a chestnut tree near the foot of Mt.
Etna in Sicily which had a trunk circum¬
ference of 200 feet. However, the largest
species of tree known is the giant redwood of
California, called the Sequoia. The tallest
known tree in the world is a sequoia in Hum¬
boldt State Park which towers 364 feet above
the ground.
The smallest tree known is the Dwarf Wil¬
low which grows on many mountains above
the timberline. This tree measures only two
or three inches in height at full maturity and
is complete even to miniature catkins similar
to those of other willow trees.
Nature, like man, can go from one extreme
to the other. And we will dig you up another
giant and jeep example next issue.
A miner on Mars rises to spectacular heights of power on the Red Planet
ivhile the Universe hums with amazing intrigue that will astonish you
in SHADOW OYER MARS, a complete hook-length novel of the
future hy Leigh Brackett, coming in the Fall issue of
STARTLING STORIES
OUT SOON—15c AT ALL STANDS!
TERROR IN THE DUST
By PAUL S. POWERS
Malignant Forces Are Released When Dr. Kronk,
Neurologist, Uses the
Associate to Create Ants
D R. KRONK’S experiment had been
brilliantly successful and develop¬
ments even more interesting, the doc¬
tor hoped, were yet to come.
The young professor, John Clarkson, had
been dead and buried for more than a month,
but small portions of his brain were still
alive and healthy in the carefully controlled
nutritive solution. Kronk had good reason
to believe that other portions, infinitesimal
in size, were living and functioning in the
heads of some thousands of red ants.
Brain of a Murdered
with Human Intelligence!
Many colonies of the ants were swarming
in a row of glass-fronted boxes along one
wall of the laboratory. The queen of each,
as well as many of the worker and fighter
individuals had been treated with the trans¬
planted brain substance—“the essence of
mind,” as Kronk liked to call it.
For the material did not consist of gross
gray matter, but of the nuclei of the cells
themselves. Dissecting away the axons and
dendrites of the neuron without causing the
death of the inner protoplasm was only one
56
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
of many difficulties connected with the work.
But Dr. Kronk had solved all the technical
problems with that amazing skill which had
made his scientific fame world-wide.
“When I’ve prepared my notes for publi¬
cation,” the doctor chuckled harmlessly,
“there’ll be some opinions changed! Those
who’ve called me a charlatan, a monger of
fakeries, will have to think of some new way
to attack me. These discoveries will upset
the whole world of Science.”
Crouching on one knee, he peered through
the glass wall of one of the nests. A casual
glance would have detected nothing unusual
in the busy swarm. But—at least so it
seemed to the doctor—a more careful ex¬
amination revealed a subtle change that had
taken place in the insects’ behavior.
Thought seemed to have replaced the
automatic mechanism of normal ants, al¬
though it was difficult to decide just where
the difference lay. There was much less
aimless scurrying, not so much blundering,
and communication between ants had
speeded up.
For several days Kronk hadn’t been sure
that his implantation of human brain had
“taken.” For ants sometimes went about
their business for long periods with no heads
at all—thanks to the strange nervous sys¬
tem of the insect—only to die later. Only a
few individuals out of hundreds had suc¬
cumbed to Kronk’s operation.
“One might almost think they were trying
to communicate with me,” the neurologist
said aloud, watching several ants which had
pressed close against the glass.
They were staring at him, he thought.
Their feelers were jerking sharply, instead
of waving vaguely about as did those of
typical ants.
Kronk wondered if they had developed
some sort of nervous tic, and for a long time
he remained by the nest, an intent, triumph¬
ant look on his sardonic face.
“They might be trying to tell me some¬
thing, the way they’re acting,” he mused.
WOR quite a while now he had been in
the habit of talking to himself, or to his
ant “patients.” Since the death of Profes¬
sor Clarkson he had been alone on this
small tropical island. Not that he minded
the loss of human companionship; he was
glad to be by himself with his investigations.
Still, be was looking forward to the ar¬
rival of the plane from the South American
mainland with pleasurable anticipation. Jane
Hawley would be aboard, and now that the
young and handsome professor was dead
and out of the way—
“I admire her,” Kronk reflected. “There
aren’t many women zoologists, and not many
of them run the risks of collecting wild ani¬
mals from all over the world. I like her
scientific point of view.”
That was the one thing that Professor
Clarkson, strangely enough, had lacked—the
scientific outlook which ignores the merely
personal equation. John Clarkson was a
distinguished myrmecologist—an expert in
the branch of entomology treating with ant
life—but he had valued his own life above
research, and at the last he had pleaded and
begged Kronk not to kill him.
But Kronk had shot him near the heart,
then trephined through the skull with the
rotary saw while Clarkson was still living.
Everything had been prepared and wait¬
ing. The neurologist had employed the in¬
strument known as Fenger’s needle, which
had a slot on one side with razor-sharp
edges. This, when rotated, cut slender cyl¬
inders of tissue from the brain cortex at the
spots that Kronk had selected.
Clarkson hadn’t suffered much—the brain
itself is insensible to pain—and of course
Kronk could not have risked an anesthetic
in any case. He wanted the cells normal
and not drugged with chloroform or ether.
He should have been glad to die, Kronk
thought smilingly, to have given his life—
his mind!—to the insects that he had under¬
stood so well.
Dr. Kronk lighted a cigarette, and left the
white-painted, galvanized iron shack that he
and the late professor had erected as their
combined laboratory. On the way out he
paused to glance at the thermostat on the
apparatus which kept the remaining shreds
of gray matter alive and nourished. There
being no electricity, a cleverly designed oil
lamp, chemically controlled, kept the tem¬
perature at a constant 99° F.
Near the shack the white-clad doctor
halted by the neat grave he had made for
John Clarkson. A hedaboard had been
fashioned to bear the name and the date of
death. There was a brief inscription, too,
and Kronk repeated it softly: “ ‘Martyr to
Science’.” Kronk’s lean, clean-shaven face
twisted into a grin.
“And a martyr to love, too, John,” he
added.
If the remains of the professor were re¬
moved later, no autopsy could disprove
Kronk’s story that he had died of a ful¬
minating frontal tumor after he, Kronk, had
attempted to save him by removing the
growth. That would explain the trephined
skull.
The world would extend sympathy not
only to Clarkson, but to the courageous
Kronk who, alone and without radio com¬
munication, had tried valiantly to save his
friend.
Amusing, the doctor thought, as he saun¬
tered down to the beach. He watched the
slow and lazy breaking of the surf for a few
minutes, then strolled around the curve of
TERROR IN THE DUST
57
the strand to the polished mirror of the
lagoon where, in a few 'days, Jane Hawley’s
party would be landing.
He decided to make a circuit of the island
for some needed exercise. For many weeks,
he had been too intent on his work, and the
three-mile walk would do him good. It was
a pleasant day with a bright, but not op¬
pressive sun, and he could examine some of
the ant colonies on his way.
Eager to learn how the “humanized” ants
would behave in their natural environment,
he had liberated about fifty of the brain-
treated queens, and he knew the location of
many of their nests.
The first few nurseries he found empty,
abandoned for some reason by the queen
mother and her retinue, but after a while he
found an occupied nest in a rotting stump at
the far side of the island.
Even this family was in the act of mov¬
ing elsewhere. Adult ants were carrying
pupae away, and some of the larva were just
breaking out of their coccoons, much to Dr.
Kronk’s elation. He was witnessing the
“birth” of some of the second generation.
The young ants were rather feeble, and
their chitin armor hadn’t yet hardened. Yet
it seemed to Kronk that they were already
displaying that queer, almost sinister intel¬
ligence that set their parents apart from the
normal. If so, Kronk’s experiment was a
masterstroke, a victory beyond his most ex¬
travagant hopes. It meant that the new
brain power had been passed through the
egg to the next ant generation!
The disturbed nest reacted strangely to
Kronk’s presence. The insects did not race
around frantically when he tore off strips of
decayed bark from their hiding places, but
remained quite still, watching him.
The newly hatched ants were jerking their
feelers with the same sharp rhythm that
Kronk had observed in the older insects in
the laboratory. There was something evil,
malignant, in that spasmodic twitching.
The doctor laughed at them. His success
had put him in high good humor, and he
hummed a tune as he swung jauntily along
the beach on his way back to the shanty.
AS HE neared the lonely building he
stopped to pick up a stray ant, using a
padded tweezer, for this meat-eating breed
had a ferocious bite, well fortified with for¬
mic acid. He examined the prisoner through
a jeweler’s eyeglass, already sure that this
specimen hadn’t been operated upon, for its
reactions had been normally antlike.
Verifying this, he took the captive mto the
lab and imprisoned it upon the stage of a
low-power microscope. As soon as the doc¬
tor’s eyes had accustomed themselves to the
change of light, he went to work.
He examined his red and hairy patient un¬
der the lens, after touching its head with a
solution from a vial, throwing a mirror beam
upon it. The eyes at the side of the head
and in the center of the forehead gleamed
like opaque glass.
The doctor smiled. Now to light the lamp
of reason behind those eyes! With a scalpel
hardly larger than a needle, he opened the
head of the ant and deftly removed its al¬
most invisible brain. Then with a tiny pipette
he transferred a minute speck of human
nervous cell protoplasm into the cranial
cavity. He concluded the operation with the
use of even smaller instruments, and then
covered the insect’s head with a thin protec¬
tive fluid that dried immediately like varnish.
It had been claimed that the most marve¬
lous atom of matter in the known universe
was the brain of an ant. Dr. Kronk knew
better: much more wonderful was this dot
of mind that he had transferred to this hum¬
ble creature.
It was his theory that all the brain power
of Man, the stored and correlated memories,
even the emotional attributes of the indi¬
vidual, were all to be found in the mysterious
fluid within the brain-cell nucleus. The visi¬
ble, material, structure was only the ma¬
chinery of thought, the electrical network.
What was the essence itself? Kronk him¬
self could not answer that. He could only
observe it in action.
“Now I’ve cursed you with intelligence,”
the doctor said, as he took the six-legged sub¬
ject to the doorway and released it outside.
That evening the neurologist prepared an
especially good dinner for himself, eating
with great enjoyment and finishing it off with
one of his last remaining bottles of Argen¬
tine champagne.
As usual, the interior of the shack was im¬
maculate, with everything in its exact place,
for Dr. Kronk was a tidy man. Clarkson’s
clothing and personal belongings were packed
and stowed away in one corner, along with
his folded cot. The single long room served
both as workshop and living quarters, with
the latter farthest from the door. Ceiling and
walls were covered with snowy wallboard
which made perfect cleanliness an easy mat¬
ter.
There were no mosquitoes, and not many
other insects on the island. Thanks to ocean
currents, even the climate was moderate for
a locality so near the equator. Kronk had
been very comfortable.
Relaxed by the wine, but with a perfectly
clear head, the doctor retired early. He
pushed the table with the lamp close to his
cot, and for two hours or more he lay in his
pajamas, reading scientific journals and oc¬
casionally jotting down a note.
Finally he yawned and reached to turn out
the light. It was then that he noticed the
ants on the ceiling directly over his bed. He
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
changed his mind about extinguishing the
lamp. Relaxed on his back, he watched in¬
tently.
Kronk’s first thought was that some of the
laboratory ants had escaped. A glance in the
direction of the glassed boxes reassured him,
although he did notice that the inmates of
those transparent prisons were all in an ex¬
cited state, and were crowding each other
on the inner sides of the windows.
The ants on the ceiling had come in from
the outside. He could see the chinks and
holes where they were making their en¬
trance. And they were young insects, the
second generation. This had to be true, for
there were hundreds, possibly thousands of
them.
And he could tell from their deportment
that they were not ordinary ants—they were
actually arranging themselves in geometric
designs!
“I was right,” Kronk murmured. “They’ve
inherited something of John Clarkson’s men¬
tality. Except Man, no living thing has ever
accomplished what they’re doing!”
He had been rather annoyed at first by the
appearance of the swarm on his spotless ceil¬
ing, but now he watched with an almost pa¬
ternal interest and growing delight.
The red insects seemed to realize now that
they had attracted his attention. For they
were making new and more intricate pat¬
terns, moving deliberately into interlocking
circles, triangles, and almost perfect squares.
Kronk reached for his notebook and began
writing and sketching feverishly. When he
looked upward again, however, he dropped
his pencil.
r T'HE red swarm was arranging itself into
^letters, a weirdly moving alphabet!
Across the flat plane of the ceiling the insects
were spelling out a word.
What was that first letter? An“M”! The
second was an “O.” There were four now:
M-O-R-T. That spelled nothing compre¬
hensible to the doctor.
Even the ants seemed uncertain, moving
with more hesitancy than when originating
the mathematical figures. More of the insects
came up waveringly at the end of the word,
making a rather misshapen “E.” The read¬
ing was now MORTE.
“But they’re forming letters! That means
that—”
Dr. Kronk could feel his heart laboring
with excitement. It meant that his theory of
concentrated Mind matter was correct, and
even more astonishing, John Clarkson’s
memory had been inherited by this new gen¬
eration of ants! That didn’t happen in
humankind, but there could be no doubting
the unanswerable evidence overhead.
The word MORTE had now changed to a
ragged and uneven MUERTE. Then this
was scattered, and the ants came together
more thickly to spell, this time, something in
three huge letters: TOD.
Enlightenment flashed through the mind
of Dr. Kronk. Why hadn’t he understood,
before? TOD was German for “Death.” Pro¬
fessor Clarkson had been a linguist, being ac¬
quainted with four or five languages besides
his professional Latin and Greek and his na¬
tive English. The ants had written “Death”
in French, Spanish, German and Italian, and
now as he watched spellbound, he saw them
outlining themselves grotesquely into Greek
characters to delineate the ominous word for
the fifth time.
Then this, too, became dissipated and scat¬
tered. Again they came together from all
sides to write, as if in letters of red flame,
this time in English and now quickly and
precisely: DEATH.
Kronk felt a ball of nausea growing at
the pit of his stomach. Why “Death” over
and over? What did they mean? Were
they threatening him? Was John Clark¬
son threatening him through the squirming
bodies of these six-legged things?
Suddenly a solitary ant dropped from
above to alight on Kronk’s naked foot.
Before he could brush it off it had bitten
him savagely, leaving a drop of liquid fire
and even the jaws themselves in the flesh,
when Kronk mangled it and slapped it to
the floor.
The species was large and powerful, three
quarters of an inch in length, and as fero¬
cious in their attack as the dreaded Bulldog
ants of Australia.
Swearing, Kronk leaped from the cot and
out from under the horrid horde overhead.
Hatred for these sinister creatures welled
up within him and sent him running
toward the end of the laboratory where his
drugs and chemicals were kept on rows of
shelves.
Some insecticide was already prepared,
and snatching up the sprayer he ran back
and began pumping the poisonous vapor at
the overhead assemblage.
A great many of them fell, dying or
stupefied, but his enemies—he knew now
that they were his enemies—had anticipated
him and were already in swift and efficient
retreat. In less than a minute the swarm
had gone the way it had come. Except for
the safely imprisoned colonies behind glass,
the building was now free of ants.
Kronk paced back and forth for a while,
then returned to his cot. He kept the light
burning, but closed his eyes and tried to
relax. Sleep would not come, however, and
after a restless hour had elapsed he got up
and went to his shelf of medicines.
“I’ll take a sedative,” he muttered. “Some¬
thing to quiet me.”
He took a bottle from the shelf, then
TERROR IN THE DUST
59
slowly returned it to its place. He was
afraid—he didn’t dare sleep. Instead, he
poured a stiff drink of raw brandy and
gulped it down. He felt better after that,
and the steady throbbing of the surf on the
beach seemed less doleful. A second, smaller
dose of the liquor enabled him to laugh at
his temporary panic.
If the island’s new population of ants
could reason, what of that? After all, they
were only ants. He was a man, a superior
one, and he could reason, too. He could
match wits with Clarkson, no matter what
form Clarkson’s mind had taken.
Reassured, he wound up his portable
phonograph. A little music now. That
would cheer him, lighten his mood as the
alcohol had done. He was about to start
the turn-table when his glance fell upon the
title of the recording.
It was “The March of the Ants.”
Wtih a snarl, Kronk hurled it to the floor
and shattered it.
THE next morning Kronk cleaned out
the laboratory, removing every one of
the glass-fronted boxes and stacking them
in a pile outside the shack on the leeward
side. Drenching the collection with oil, he
set it afire, and stood by grimly to make
certain that not a single individual survived.
When this was over, he armed himself
with a shovel and pickax, and went hunting,
tramping over most of the island. But he
found no inhabited nests. The six-legged
tribe seemed to have altered their living
habits, abandoning the decayed wood and
other accessible haunts for remote hiding-
places which were too well camouflaged for
Kronk’s eyes.
Some of the colonies were deep in the
sand, but although he toiled until he was
nearly exhausted he was unable to reach
the inhabitants. The best he could do was
to pour oil over the suspicious spots and
apply a match. He didn’t see an ant in all
his wandering—and that was more disturb¬
ing than the sight of an attacking thousand.
But there was an ant waiting for him on
his desk in the laboratory! Kronk had
gone first to the apparatus which contained
the remaining shreds of brain, and he had
“killed” the tissue by dumping a convenient
bottle of carbolic acid into the solution.
His smile of satisfaction faded, however,
when he saw the red Lilliputian occupying
the exact center of a sheet of calculations
that Kronk had tossed onto his desk the
morning previous.
“Well, are you their ambassador?”
The lone insect really seemed to be an
envoy. For it was regarding Kronk with
fixed attention, jerking its antennae in that
peculiar manner that was so puzzling to
Kronk.
Was it a sign language—a code? The
neurologist remembered that one of John
Clarkson’s hobbies had been amateur wire¬
less. There were some books on the subject
among his belongings.
Kronk hunted until he found one of them
and returned to the desk. Was it his imagi¬
nation, or did the ant envoy show signs
of being greatly pleased? The thing was
dancing about. Now it froze once more,
motionless except for the twitching of its
feelers.
Kronk turned to a page containing the
International Code. The creature was mak¬
ing a short jerk of its antennae followed
by two longer ones. A “W”? Perhaps
so, for it was succeeded with one short
twitch. An “E.” Then a pause. Kronk
was sure now that the word WE was meant.
The ant continued, slowly and patiently,
giving Kronk time to look up each separate
signal.
“W-E W-I-L-L K-I-L-L Y-O-U.” That
was the message! Then another word:
P-A-I-N-F-U-L-L-Y. Still another:
S-L-O-W-L-Y. Kronk whitened with rage.
“Can you understand me when I speak?”
he yelled at the thing.
After a while the answer came: “I-M-
P-E-R-F-E-C-T-L-Y S-O-U-N-D-
W-A-V-E-S D-I-F-F-E-R-E-N-T T-O
U-S.”
“Who are you? Who?” Kronk shouted.
“W-E A-R-E J-O-H-N C-L-A-R-K-
S-O-N.”
With a blow of his fist so violent that the
top of the desk was split, Dr. Kronk smashed
the insect to a splash of pulp.
So these super-ants had declared war,
had they? They were going to kill him by
torture? Well, he thought differently!
In a rage he stormed through the labora¬
tory, taking stock of his resources. He
hadn’t as much insecticide as he could have
wished, and he hadn’t chemicals enough to
make more. But there were other measures
he could take.
He would fix it so that his vicious little
enemies would be unable to approach him.
It would be impossible to totally ant-proof
the shack, but even clever ones like these
could be thwarted. Kronk didn’t intend to
lose another night’s sleep, either!
By nightfall he was ready for them. He
had set the four legs of his bed into a can
of gasoline, and had painted the ceiling over
his sleeping place with a sticky tanglefoot
liquid that he had mixed. His enemies
were not of the jumping species, fortunately,
but as a precaution he saw that the cot
was well away from the wall, and that no
bedding hung downward.
Then he got into his silk sleeping-garment
and took a moderate drink of brandy—the
first he had taken that day. He had eaten
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
practically nothing for his appetite was gone.
He needed sleep, and he was determined to
get it.
Stepping into bed, he took a last look
around. All was well. But nevertheless
he did not extinguish his lamp. He could
only bring himself to lower the flame a
little. He relaxed and began to drowse,
then became suddenly and unpleasantly
awake.
Something was moving toward his bed
along the dim laboratory floor. It was
coming slowly, and Kronk blinked and
rubbed his eyes.
An ordinary wooden match!
It was being carried, not clumsily dragged,
by a party of half a dozen warrior ants.
They were bringing it point forward, as if
it were a battering ram, with several insects
on either side and with a few others march¬
ing in front.
jOASCINATED, the doctor stared incred-
ulously while the match was brought
in a bee-line toward the foot of his bed.
There was a faint plink as it touched the
tin in which the bed-leg had been set. En¬
gineering it expertly, the team carried the
match, tipped-head first, up the side of the
can. As it neared the level of the rim, one
of the big fellows began gnawing at the
red and blue bulb with suicidal determina¬
tion.
Almost too late Kronk remembered the
gasoline with which the cans were filled.
With a shout, he lunged to the foot of
the bed, knocked off the balanced match and
the ants that clung to it, just as the power¬
ful mandibles had accomplished their pur¬
pose.
He yelled again with mingled anger and
relief as the match spurted into yellow flame
a foot away from the tin, and the suicide ant
writhed and shriveled in ghastly heroism.
And as if Kronk’s cry had been a signal, a
great red tide of ants came pouring toward
him over the floor from three directions.
It was the attack!
Kronk hadn’t dreamed that there could
be so many of them on the island. The
army numbered hundreds of thousands, per¬
haps millions! He knew that he was safe,
unreachable, and yet he felt naked fear go
through him like an icy sword.
A great, dark red carpet was being un¬
rolled in the laboratory, a living rug with
a hideously seething warp of fantastically
racing ants! It swept simultaneously
toward the gasoline tins at the head and foot
of the cot.
With a choked yell, Kronk reached for his
shoes, which were just under the bed, but
he was too late. They were already alive
and flickering with the movement of count¬
less red bodies, Pulses pounding, Kronk
stood up on the cot, his head hunched for¬
ward to avoid the ceiling.
Then he gave a cracked laugh.
“All right, die! You’re not as clever as
I thought!”
For the ants were killing themselves by
the thousands, swarming up the sides of the
tins in solid masses and dropping in like
rain. Already the surface of the liquid was
hidden by floating corpses, and the layer
was thickening. But as fast as the ants died
they were replaced by others.
The cans were filling up!
In spite of the fumes, the raiders came
on in an unceasing current that rose over
the dead and continued to rise inexorably.
Already a few of them had bridged the gap
and were clinging to the bedposts. Urged
by the driving instinct of the community
in which the individual counts for nothing,
but directed by human Mind, the horrible
army would not be denied. In them the will
to live and to carry on their species had been
replaced by the will to kill their enemy at
any cost.
They were boiling up now along the edge
of the mattress.
Kronk’s white face was wet with nervous
sweat as he hesitated, afraid to jump. If he
could only reach the door! But the thought
of running through that moving mass was
frightening. Suppose he slipped and fell in
that living ocean ?
The agonizing sting of ant bites on his
bare feet and ankles gave him the needed
courage, and he leaped as far as he could
and was running in a frenzy as he struck the
floor. He skidded sickeningly, struck the
wall, but managed to keep his balance and
hurtle through the door.
“They’ve done their worst—and I’ve won!”
he panted, when he had run a safe distance
from the shack and had rid himself of the
insects which had invaded his pajama legs.
Dr. Kronk’s self-congratulations were not
to last long. There was a bright moon, ob¬
scured at times by a scud of thin clouds, and
Kronk sought a place where he could sleep,
or at least relax. He walked for more than
half a mile under the tall palms that fringed
the dunes, then smoothed a spot in the sand
and slumped down.
Before he had been there five minutes he
was savagely attacked, not by the main body
of his enemies, which could not have reached
him in that length of time, but by a small
yet efficient new group.
Evidently outposts and a system of spies
had been established everywhere. Cursing
and slapping at his tormentors, he ran along
the dunes for a hundred yards, and when
he halted again he was discovered by an¬
other party and driven on.
“They’re trying to keep me from sleeping,”
Kronk thought somberly. “I’ve got to rest,
TERROR IN THE DUST
61
somehow.”
He thought of the beach, and jogged
down to the shore, where the combers were
breaking in a smother of phosphorescent
white. The salt water was cool and sooth¬
ing to his feet and ankles as he waded into
the edge of the restlessly moving water. He
lay down on the wet sand, letting the waves
lap at the lower part of his body. He
hoped that he would be able to get a little
sleep in that way, but some of the red
torturers spotted him and forced him to
keep pretty much submerged.
As the tide moved, he had to move with
it, and sleep was impossible. The night
passed with distressing slowness, and he
was glad when the east took fire with the
dawn.
W»UT THE night had been only a purga-
tory compared with the hellish mental
sufferings of the next day. Keeping to the
beach, he walked entirely around the island.
Whenever he tried to go inland or to halt
for more than a few minutes, he was in¬
variably set upon by several dozen red
assailants.
The shack was still held by the main
force. Kronk got within fifty yards of it
and was compelled to beat a hasty retreat.
Faint with hunger, he sloshed along at the
edge of the sea. Fortunately, he was able
to secure some shellfish, and he devoured
them raw.
He was glad somehow that the revolver
was in the laboratory and out of reach.
“There’s no saying what I might try to
do if things stay like this,” he muttered.
“And I’ll be blasted if I’ll give John Clark¬
son that satisfaction! I’ll show him! I’ll
fight through this nightmare!”
The thought of Jane Hawley and the sea¬
plane, due any day now, was comforting.
Toward noon he made the discovery of
two dampish matches and a crumpled cig¬
arette in his pajama pocket. This meant
more than the solace of tobacco! Now he
was sure that he had Clarkson beaten.
He cleared off a circle of many paces in
circumference and rimmed it with dried
grass, moss and seaweed, leaving more fuel
inside the ring so that he could keep the
fire replenished. Carefully he killed the
few ants within the circle. When all was
burning briskly he stretched himself out
in the center to smoke his cigarette and
then to sleep.
“A few hours of peace,” he sighed, “and
I’ll be able to think of ways to beat those
little devils of Clarkson’s—”
He had just been on the verge of dropping
into delicious slumber when the wicked nip¬
pers of a dozen “devils” seared the flesh of
his forearms. In a fury he beat them off,
but it was no avail. His circle was teeming
with his relentless foes.
They had simply burrowed under the fire!
Kronk jumped through the smoke and
staggered back to the beach. There was a
strange singing in his ears now, and the
dazzling horizons wavered as if seen through
a warped mirror. Somehow he made his
way to the lagoon, buoyed by the wild hope
that he might see the plane land there.
There was no seaplane, but halfway
around the looping shore Kronk came upon
a pile of old timbers and other pieces of
wreckage, ancient and decayed. It gave him
an idea.
With no tools, except his feverish hands,
he hastily set about floating a crude raft.
Cursing, almost weeping, he pushed the
clumsy thing out from the bank and threw
himself aboard—just as his adversaries
rushed him once more.
His weight nearly submerged the crazy
raft, but it gave him enough support so
that he could stretch out. He could laugh
again now, and across the intervening ten-
foot gap of water he taunted John Clarkson.
It had been a close thing, but he was free
of the insect hordes and would be as long
as he stayed in the lagoon. The sun was
sinking again, and he closed his eyelids
against its lurid red glare. The water was
almost still here, with only a gentle current.
It was soothing, restful—
His eyes jerked open, and the raft nearly
capsized as he crawled to his knees and
started paddling with a piece of board.
A long tendril of swimming ants was
reaching out from the bank like the arm of
an octopus. Fortunately for Kronk, how¬
ever, they were not aquatic insects and
they had already come about as far as was
possible for them. Only when he saw them
drowning did he breathe more easily. To
be safe, he toiled with his makeshift oar
until he was in the very center of the
lagoon.
Kronk’s numbed mind drifted into a
stupor then, but he couldn’t have slept long.
The light that flooded the lagoon poured
from a tropical, copper-colored moon. It
was almost as bright as day, with the gaunt
palms on the shore etched sharply against
a luminous sky.
The raft was still near the middle of the
lake but moving a little because of the tidal
change, for the lagoon was connected with
the sea. Still raw-nerved from lack of sleep,
the doctor wondered why he had awakened.
Pulling himself to his knees, he looked
about him.
What new horror was this?
On the surface of the water near him,
something round was bobbing gently, like a
human, a negroid head! Not far away
was another dark ball, floating slowly. And
there were others!
62
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
The first globe missed the raft by a few
feet, and Kronk saw, with a thrill of terror,
that it was made up entirely of writhing
ants! They were clinging together in a
close, interlocked mass, and the whole thing
was turning slowly over and over.
Professor Clarkson’s brain was function¬
ing well. He was using the currents of the
changing tide, and even while Kronk stared
in horror one of the globes struck the end
of the raft, practically exploding into its
thousands of component parts!
As if protected by a film of oil, the crea¬
tures were landing high and dry, and they
raced at Kronk in a torrent.
With a scream Kronk dived off the raft.
He swam under water as far as he could,
then took a breath at the surface and struck
out for the shore.
CLOAKED and muddied, he crawled up the
^ swampy bank, and when he had recov¬
ered his breath he began walking. By a
great effort he succeeded in steadying his
quivering nerves.
“All I have to do is keep moving. I can
cover more ground in a minute than they
can in an hour,” he told himself more con¬
fidently. “I’ll get what I need at the shack
tomorrow, in spite of them. Their sting¬
ing is painful, but that’s all—I won’t die from
ant bites. You can’t beat me, John Clark¬
son! The plane will be here maybe tomor¬
row—in two or three days, at the utmost.
Slowly and steadily he trudged on until
the east was graying with a new day. Ex¬
hausted he threw himself onto a patch of
sand near the middle of the island. It was
half an acre in extent, free of vegetation
and, so far as he could tell, from ants.
He would soon be found, of course, but
before the first sting awoke him he would
recuperate, to some degree at least, his tired
mind and body. Maybe the greater part of
his enemies had drowned . . .
When Kronk awoke out of a deep sleep he
was overjoyed to see the sun many hours
high. There were no ants in sight, and he lay
motionless, enjoying the luxury of this totally
unexpected peace.
John Clarkson’s vengeance had failed. He
had tried hard—Kronk smiled almost affec¬
tionately at the thought of John’s stubborn¬
ness—but after all, ants could be no match
for Man, even insects such as these.
Yawning, he turned his head slightly and
saw something on the sand alongside him.
He reached out lazily and picked it up, sur¬
prised to recognize it as a glass tube (the
length of a cigarette but more slender) from
his laboratory drug shelf.
It was labeled Cocaine Hydrochloride. The
cork was gone, and except for a little white
powder it was empty.
Kronk laughed uproariously. The ants had
dragged that bottle here hoping that he
would commit suicide, had they? Wasn’t
Clarkson smarter than that? There were
many poisons more effective than cocaine.
And even if—
He blinked. Then he laughed again. A
lone ant was approaching across the level
sand. Another ambassador?
“Want to talk do you?” Kronk chortled as
the insect halted a foot from his face.
Kronk lay comfortably where he was, and
was greatly amused. His photographic
mind still remembered the code, and he had
no difficulty in deciphering the twitchings of
the ant’s feelers. “Want to sign an armistice,
do you?” Kronk taunted.
“W-E H-A-V-E Y-O-U N-O-W,” said
the antennae.
Kronk’s thin, unshaven face twisted into
a mocking smile. Then his grin froze on his
peeled-back lips became a grimace of fear
and horror.
In trying to sit up he found that his legs
were powerless. He couldn’t move them;
they were like lumps of lifeless wood.
With trembling fingers, he investigated a
tiny, deep and painless wound in his back.
And then the hideous revelation flashed
upon him!
The ants had been busy. They had covered
their jaws with the deadening local anes¬
thetic, had bored into his flesh, infiltering the
drug as they went—and they had cut his
spinal cord!
The feelers of the ambassador ant were
quivering now as if with demoniac mirth.
Screaming, Kronk tried to drag himself away
on his elbows and hands, but there was
more than one ant now!
They came in from all directions, and they
came by thousands. . . .
Jane Hawley had decided not to leave the
seaplane which would take off from the
lagoon again in a few hours. The news her
assistants had brought her, soon after the
landing, had left her overwhelmed with grief.
Her only thought now was to get away
from the island as quickly as possible.
The lonely grave of her friend. Profes¬
sor Clarkson, had been discovered immedi¬
ately by the crew. No, she would not land,
but would stay aboard with the collection
of animals. It was very strange, though,
that no trace could be found of that brain
surgeon, Dr. Kronk.
“Did you find him?” she called across the
water, as the collapsible boat approached the
resting place.
“He’s not on the island. We figure he
must have accidentally drowned,” the pilot
replied. “Say! We did find an old skeleton
on the middle of the island. Must have been
there a long time. It’s as white as ivory.”
That was interesting, Jane Hawley thought.
But there were more important things to
HEADLINERS IN THE NEXT ISSUE
63
attend to. In spite of her sorrow she had
not forgotten the needs of the animals in
her charge.
“Mr. Smith,” she called to the pilot again,
“did you see any—”
“No, I didn’t, Miss Hawley,” he answered,
shaking his head in the negative. “I’m afraid
those rare, two-toed ant-eaters of yours will
have to go hungry for a while longer. I don’t
think there’s an ant on the island.”
HEADLINERS IN TIIE NEXT ISSUE
VV7 ITH all time, as man knows it, frozen into immobility—with all clockwork and marks by which we
” measure the duration of anything halted—with even the very movements of sun and wind and stars
transfixed between split seconds—what would be the result? Murray Leinster gives us the answer to this
in THE ETERNAL NOW, the featured complete novelet in our next issue. Caught by the magic of
science between two heartbeats, Dr. Henry Brett and Laura Hunt find themselves living at a normal rate
in a gray world of still life and immobility. Nobody and nothing in that frozen, lifeless universe
can help them escape from the perilous trap. Only Harry Brett's scientific mind can solve the problem.
O N TOP of which Paul MacNamara poses a different sort of problem in his complete novelet—THE
LAST MAN IN NEW YORK. This sort of fantasy is not a new idea, but the way Mr. MacNamara
handles the theme is distinctly fresh and novel, foe Dunn, star reporter of the Telegram, actually finds
himself to be the last man left in a completely deserted New York—and he doesn't know what to do
about it. Until Julie Crosby comes along. Then foe gets seriously and grimly busy in his efforts to
penetrate to the heart of the mystery. And the final answer will surprise you!
N EXT on tap is a third complete novelet. BEYOND THE VORTEX, by Frank Belknap Long, is the
story of the biggest big game hunt of all time. When a traveler from a distant galaxy kidnaps a
group of Callisto-bound Earthmen, it doesn’t stop George, the photographer, from coming back with a
living picture! Talk about ten nights in a psychiatric ward! Talk about all the big game and scientific
expeditions ever sent out! BEYOND THE VORTEX proves to be the greatest safari of them all.
D RAWING fourth position on the manifest of next issue’s cargo is the new Amateur Contest story —
BLOATED BRAIN, by ALFRED G. KUEHN. You will find announcement of this contest winner in
Sergeant Saturn's department in this issue, and you will find the story itself, plus some personal data on
the author, in our forthcoming number. Yooggl was ambitious, and he sought to steal the discovery
of Professor Krex. He succeeded—beyond his wildest hopes, and Prize-winner Kuelin tells us how in
BLOATED BRAIN. # » * »
E VENING things up and balancing the cargo all around, there will be several other splendid short
stories and a new group of amazing SCIENTI FACTS, as well as several interesting science articles
and departments.
IP EARGUARD action, of course, will be supplied by Sergeant Saturn and his circus of performing ki-
IV w ; s . Don’t forget that in THE READER SPEAKS Department you will find compact but compre¬
hensive information on THE AMATEUR STORY CONTEST and THE SCIENCE FICTION LEAGUE,
plus many letters from fans and readers.
PRIESTESS of PAKMARI
By ALBERT DE PINA
With Civilization at Stake, Space Pilot Phillip Varon Crosses
the Dread Jungles of Venus on a Mission of Many Perils!
CHAPTER I
Hazardous Venture
I T WAS over. Incredibly it was over,
that humiliating trip to Mars where the
malicious courtesy of a bitter people
had added to his shame. For Dar Vaajo,
emperor of Mars, had never forgotten that
Venus had put an end to his dreams of con¬
quest. It was over—and it had ended in
failure. Mars remained adamant. The Ura¬
nium embargo stood. And the precious iso¬
tope that powered Venus’ complex civiliza¬
tion, a civilization opposed to Mars’ preda¬
tory program, and Terra’s domination, had
dwindled to the danger point. Soon all
atomic-powered machines would stop, spac¬
ers would be grounded, and hunger would
stalk the cities where multitudes already
milled in growing fear. Then civilization
would crash to ruins.
Phillip Varon’s space-tanned features
dripped perspiration as he stepped out of the
airlock of his long, gleaming atomo-plane.
To him Venus’ Centralport was an Eden,
riotous with fantastic blossoms, which stood
out vividly against the purpling ramparts of
the distant mountains. Above him, the cloud-
cap was translucently blue, like a cosmic
sheet of sapphirine glass lighted from be-
“Excellency, the Council awaits your re¬
port. Your plane’s ready.”
The soft voice was deep and melodious,
but slightly halting, as if unaccustomed to
speech, for Venusians communicated largely
by telepathy, unlike the millions of Terrans
PRIESTESS of PAKMARI
By ALBERT DE PINA
With Civilization at Stake, Space Pilot Phillip Varon Crosses
the Dread Jungles of Venus on a Mission of Many Perils!
CHAPTER I
Hazardous Venture
I T WAS over. Incredibly it was over,
that humiliating trip to Mars where the
malicious courtesy of a bitter people
had added to his shame. For Dar Vaajo,
emperor of Mars, had never forgotten that
Venus had put an end to his dreams of con¬
quest. It was over—and it had ended in
failure. Mars remained adamant. The Ura¬
nium embargo stood. And the precious iso¬
tope that powered Venus’ complex civiliza¬
tion, a civilization opposed to Mars’ preda¬
tory program, and Terra’s domination, had
dwindled to the danger point. Soon all
atomic-powered machines would stop, spac¬
ers would be grounded, and hunger would
stalk the cities where multitudes already
milled in growing fear. Then civilization
would crash to ruins.
Phillip Varon’s space-tanned features
dripped perspiration as he stepped out of the
airiock of his long, gleaming atomo-plane.
To him Venus’ Centralport was an Eden,
riotous with fantastic blossoms, which stood
out vividly against the purpling ramparts of
the distant mountains. Above him, the cloud-
cap was translucently blue, like a cosmic
sheet of sapphirine glass lighted from be¬
hind.
“Excellency, the Council awaits your re¬
port. Your plane’s ready.”
The soft voice was deep and melodious,
but slightly halting, as if unaccustomed to
speech, for Venusians communicated largely
by telepathy, unlike the millions of Terrans
64
As Varon shifted his
the octopus,
the monster began to thresh madly
66 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
on Venus who still had to use speech.
Phillip Varon glanced at the tiny Venusian,
scarcely five feet in height. He noticed the
messenger was wearing the star of a palace
chamberlain upon his golden tunic, a rich
color which blended harmoniously with his
brightly colored wings. Varon then ob¬
served that his spacer had been surrounded
by armed guards.
Nearby a ’copter, its vanes whirring, was
awaiting him. He nodded and again inhaled
deeply of the moist fragrant air. He remem¬
bered Mars, grim and arid, where breathing
was a painful process, peopled by grim be¬
ings. The memory was not pleasant. A vast
anger at Dar Vaajo’s embargo seethed within
him, and he shook his yellow head, trying to
control himself. What could he tell the
Council? True he had not radioed, for there
had been nothing to say except the mission
had not been successful.
Varon walked over to the ’copter and
entered it. Soon the craft soared silently
upwards and they were speeding to the
palace. Beneath him gleamed Starla, capital
city of Venus, with its prismatic domes and
buildings of varicolored hetero-plastics.
Ahead, fantastic in the blue afternoon light,
was the Platinum Palace, all plastic. Its soft
silver glory so closely resembled silver that
it had been named after the precious metal.
Varon was at once taken to a room re¬
sembling an impregnable cavern of Vulcanite
in the palace. In the exact center, there was
a table of priceless Jadite, in the shape of a
five-pointed star. At the apex sat Empress
Aladdian, fragile and lovely. At her right,
Mark Denning, the Prince Consort towered
above her. Aloof, on her left, stood Romain,
the Terran Ambassador, with just the
shadow of a smile on his saturnine features.
To the lower right point of the star, Caw¬
dor, Ambassador from Mars, grinned sar¬
donically at Varon. Sereno, Minister of State,
sat silently at Cawdor’s left. Beyond, the
walls were lined with winged figures, the
brilliant, winged palace guard.
■^TARON stopped before them and gave
his report. He was laconic, and a bit
ashamed at his failure, for an emphatic
“No” had been the essence of Dar Vaajo’s
“And so, your Majesty, and members of the
Council, Mars will not lift the embargo on
Uranium. Two-thirty-five, pleading an ex¬
treme shortage. My life is yours to com¬
mand.” Thus he finished in the formal man¬
ner.
The Empress turned her gaze on Cawdor.
Her exquisite face showed no emotion, but
her immense blue eyes were sparkling.
“It’s strange, Cawdor,” she said in the deep,
’cello-like tones that had made her voice
famous in four planets. “Strange that a
sudden shortage should occur!”
Cawdor rose and bowed. The quality of
his smile grew uglier.
“Deplorable, your Majesty.” He spread
his huge hands deprecatingly. “But what
can we do?” He gazed at the Terran Am¬
bassador meaningly. “Of course, if Mars
and Terra were permitted to have a voice
in the administration of Vulcan—” He left
the sentence unfinished.
The Empress rose to her full height of
four feet eleven inches, her face white and
strained.
“Vulcan and its mines of vulcanite are
to be exclusively under the administration of
Venus, according to treaty!” Her voice
rang with emotion. “To invite Mars and
Terra to join its administration, and have
access to invulnerable Vulcanite, is to invite
another suicidal war. Cawdor! That I will
never permit!”
“And without the Uranium isotope, your
Majesty,” Cawdor spoke slowly, each word
dripping venom, “all atomic activity on
Venus will cease, industries will be para¬
lyzed, commerce will become stagnant, in¬
terplanetary travel a thing of the past, hun¬
ger and disease will decimate your cities,
and the jungle will once again claim its lost
ground. Then what good will your invul¬
nerable fleets of Vulcanite be? And until
we get a share in Vulcan, we shall have a
shortage of Uranium!”
The Terran Ambassador nodded in agree¬
ment, a sardonic smile wrinkling his aristo¬
cratic features.
It was now that Mark Denning, the
Prince Consort arose.
“The open Council is ended,” he said
harshly. “Your Excellencies are dismissed!”
Both Cawdor, of Mars, and Romain, of
Terra, bowed insolently and withdrew, and
behind them they left the unmistakable
feeling that it was but a question of time
before disaster would strike, and time was
very short.
“Your Majesty, we might return to elec¬
trical means for the production of power,”
said Sereno, Minister of State. “It is a step
backwards, I know, but it would at least
prevent disaster.” He spoke softly.
“Electrical means would be inadequate to
supply power to our great industries, Sereno.
Besides, there’s no time—there’s no time.”
The Empress gazed absorbedly at a point
PRIESTESS
in the distance, as if in inward communion.
Then she turned her eyes to Phillip Varon,
still standing at the base of the great Star.
“Spacer Varon, you have heard,” she said.
“Until recently most of our Uranium Two-
thirty-five came from Mars, in exchange for
food, jewels and metals. We paid gener¬
ously, and we have offered to pay even more.
When we sent you to Mars, we selected you
because you are of the ‘Explorer’ class, the
hardiest, the best trained Terran Corps on
Venus. And of them all, you have earned
the highest honors. Now, not only Mars re¬
fuses to continue to supply us, but our pas¬
senger spacers are disappearing enroute to
various points of the empire. Literally hun¬
dreds of searching parties have been sent,
and all of them have failed to return.”
She paused.
“Venus is your home, as it is for millions
of Terrans,” she continued softly, her mar¬
velous voice weaving a melody of tragedy.
“Unless we can find what is destroying our
spacers and preventing exploration of the
jungles of the planet, we will be easy prey
for conquest. We must solve the secret of
the disappearing spacers. Then our scien¬
tists may find hidden deposits of Uranium,
or of Radium. It is our only hope.”
Phillip Varon’s face was both solemn and
haggard. Having been to Mars he knew
intimately what domination by that blood¬
thirsty race would mean. Dar Vaajo had
hinted as much as he dared. As for Terra,
if what little he knew of that verdant, parent
planet were true, he had no desire to live
there. For all its loveliness he, Phillip Varon,
had no intention of submitting to the famous
“Controls” until he couldn’t call his soul his
own. Instantly he made a decision.
“Your Majesty, I beg to be permitted to go
alone on a journey of exploration. Single-
handed, I stand a better chance than with a
cumbersome patrol, and I may be fortunate
enough to solve the mystery. If I could be
shown where the passenger-spacers cease to
respond to the radio signals, and how far the
searching parties traveled, we might find the
answer we seek.”
The Empress’ eyes softened as she gazed
at Varon’s Leander-like shoulders, at his
yellow mane bleached by “space stresses,”
the strong features of his space-tanned face.
“You have Our permission,” she said.
Then, with an impulsive gesture, she took
off a priceless red Panagram and placed it
on the little finger of his left hand.
“Sereno will make the necessary arrange¬
ments and give you all the information we
have,” she added.
OF PAKMARI 67
SOON after leaving Empress Aladdian,
Phillip Varon departed from the Plati¬
num Palace, disdaining an escort. It was al¬
most evening, and an amethystine haze had
supplanted the blue light of day. He walked
down the superb avenue, lined with luxurious
pleasure resorts and interplanetary hostelries
where exquisite foods of four planets were
served.
Slowly, he wended his way to the lower
part of the city. Here every known game of
chance was offered at a price. Here, also,
the warm, fragrant evening was ablaze with
a miracle of vari-colored light. As far as the
eye could see, an endless succession of thea¬
tres, casinos and the more harmless “Vision
Palaces” where every dream of a man’s de¬
sire was harmlessly induced by hypnotics for
a moderate price. Varon paused and smiled.
For some time he’d had the eerie sensation
of being followed, of having eyes watching
him. Being a “sensitive,” as all explorers had
to be, he knew the sensation to be genuine.
Leisuredly he lighted a Venusian cigarette,
and gazed aimlessly around, but inwardly all
his faculties were alert with that supernal
sense of keening that an explorer’s training
imparted. It didn’t matter, Phillip Varon
thought.
He was prepared.
The flexible beryllium-mesh undershirt he
wore was impervious to anything less than
an atom-blast. He might be able to learn
something.
And then, without further warning, a
ferocious attack was launched and he was
facing death!
Varon felt a terrific blow between his
shoulder blades that left a burning point of
flame in his flesh. The impact almost sent
him to his knees. But with cat-like agility
he whirled around. Confronting him was a
face contorted with the “killing-madness.”
The attacker held in his hand a thin shaft of
Martian alloy, now bent and twisted as Phil¬
lip glimpsed a pair of reddened eyes, the
Martian uttered a scream of rage, hurled the
shaft into Varon’s face, and sprang!
Varon rolled slightly aside, still crouching.
He was icy calm. As suddenly as the would-
be assassin had struck, Varon had become a
trained fighting machine, with but a single
purpose in his mind. At the Martian’s next
rush, he sent a straight left to the man’s
heart, driving him off balance. Varon kept
facing him, balanced lightly on his toes, as
the Martian came boring in tenaciously, his
tremendous chest heaving. Varon’s left
brushed aside the Martian’s blow, while he
used his right, long and weaving, throwing
68 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
it swiftly three times, like a cat sparring with
a mouse. But the killer rushed back, ag¬
gressive and eager.
Varon let his heels touch ground this time,
and refused to give way. He took a murder¬
ous hook to the stomach without flinching,
countered with a quick left to the face and
then a vicious right cross with all the power
at his command. The Martian’s features lost
their contour. They blurred and grew gory.
His feet crossed and his knees went suddenly
rubbery. He fell with a tremendous crash
and didn’t get up. Phillip Varon towered
above him, breathing heavily, only now aware
of the immense crowd of Venusians and
Terrans that surrounded him.
This attack settled one thing in Varon’s
mind. It convinced him that Mars had a
great deal more to do with the disappear¬
ance of the Spacers than was apparent on
the surface. Unfortunately, a quick search
of the Martian’s clothing brought no evi¬
dence to light. The Martian had no identi¬
fication papers, and it was impossible to ques¬
tion him. His neck had been broken.
When the authorities finally arrived, Varon
quietly identified himself, and requested be¬
ing taken to Centralport. Night would be the
most propitious time to start his journey.
He now realized it was destined to be one of
the most dangerous he had ever undertaken.
CHAPTER II
A Friend in Need
"'■Kl’ITHIN the superbly appointed cabin
of his Spacer, Phillip Varon pored over
the maps furnished him by Sereno, the Minis¬
ter of State. He should be near the approxi¬
mate area on Venus where the Transcon¬
tinental Spacers ceased to give their posi¬
tion by radio, where the mystery that blan¬
keted their disappearance began.
Outside, the deep purple of night was al¬
most impenetrable. Beneath lay the immense
ocean of virgin jungle that cut the continent
in two halves. On the other side of that
unexplored, impassable expanse lay Gloria,
the greatest industrial center of Venus, and
roughly to the north, Paseden, where the
plastic miracles of the planet were created
secretly. Varon had little concern over the
safety of his ship. Its tough Vulcanite hide
was impervious to anything, and here in the
cabin every known aid of silence had been
invoked to minimize stresses on the human
body. He had set the nuro-robot, that guided
the ship automatically, at a speed almost in¬
ducing vertigo, knowing that in losing height
he would have time to decelerate.
One moment he was hurtling through the
night and suddenly there was no pressure of
acceleration, no gravity. It was startling. He
looked at the speedometer, and it showed an
unbelievable figure—a drive equal to inter¬
planetary acceleration. And yet, he felt
weightless, and as if standing still. He bent
over the ethero-magnum intent on reporting
this phenomenon, but the instrument was
dead. True, the tubes lighted, the banks of
keys responded to his agile fingers, but the
recorder was motionless, and the familiar
ascending whine of the instrument was miss¬
ing.
“Well, it’s here, now!” Phillip Varon mur¬
mured, his faculties preternaturally clear as
he grappled with this unforeseen mystery.
An abrupt physical movement made his
brain whirl and his stomach shudder with
nausea. A sensation as of burning sun tin¬
gled along his skin. From these indications,
Varon knew he was in mortal peril.
Swiftly he gave the atomo-plane full power
at a dizzy acceleration, and then abruptly
shoved in the reverse. There was a jar that
shook his bones until they rattled like rice,
and his tongue clove to his palate.
Suddenly the purple shadows outside
seemed to dance a saraband as the plane com¬
pleted a slow but tremendous somersault
in space. Then he was out of control, the
atomic device dead, and the ship was rush¬
ing back over the ground he’d covered at the
same time he began to feel a steady pressure
on his body, as acceleration returned. It was
like the current of a strong wind, but it
steadied his nerves, and after the first shock
it was bearable.
He knew he was hurtling out of control
and making a wide banking turn which, at
the present acceleration, would carry him far
off course. But where, and in what direc¬
tion? All the instruments had gone haywire,
and the impenetrable purple murk outside
was abysmal. He thought of bailing out, but
the idea of getting into contact with the
Palace persisted. Perhaps he could, at least,
report the exact locality where he had noted
the phenomenon, the place where all the in¬
struments had ceased to register and acceler¬
ation ceased. He bent over the ethero-mag¬
num and worked furiously against time, dis¬
mantling the complex instrument and then
carefully replacing its parts. It was not
damaged, just neutralized as if by a wave of
force.
There was a rending crash. An upheaval
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI 69
as if the universe had gone mad! Then came
darkness!
Just how long Phillip Varon remained un¬
conscious he never was able to estimate. The
impenetrable gloom had not lightened, nor
had the “Blue” of Venus’ daytime returned.
Varon lay where he had fallen in the cabin,
breathing shallowly.
He felt as though he were exhausted and
his body seemed to be a mass of bruises.
Full consciousness came back slowly and
many minutes passed before his memory
returned. With it he re-lived the last few
seconds before blackness had engulfed him.
But for the mullioning of the tiny spacer’s
cabin, he would have been crushed.
He noticed that the floor of the cabin in¬
clined at a steep angle, and that no vegeta¬
tion clotted the visports. Through these
ports he could catch glimpses of what seemed
to be a vast jungle which stretched off into
the far distance.
He crawled slowly to the compact cabinet
where the provisions were stored and man¬
aged to swallow a few concentrate tablets.
After a long interval, his strength began to
return and his magnificent body to function
normally, despite the awful beating it had
received.
He felt as if he’d been tortured in the
Martian “bruja” where each limb of the
victim is individually twisted and each espe¬
cial nerve is maltreated. At last he man¬
aged to gain the outer lock and, heaving
with all his strength, he opened the door. A
fantastic sight met his startled gaze.
The small atomo-plane, like a tinsel toy,
was caught in the branches of a gigantic
tree. Or was it a tree? The vast, vegetable
thing had bulbous branches, each one thicker
than an ordinary tree itself, which were
stretched towards the translucent cloud cap.
These branches were glistening, viscous black
in color, and spiked with murderous daggers
two feet long. They were tortured and twisted
into a nightmare of monumental size.
Phillip Varon clambered slowly out of his
ship and down the glistening branches, ex¬
pecting at any moment to be crushed in a
ghastly embrace. Finally he gained the iri¬
descent purple mud. All around him, at a
respectful distance from the amorphous tree,
a riot of scented blossoms, cloying sweet,
struggled upward, seeking the diffused blue
light from above. Myriad flowering parasi-
tics clambered in twisted profusion, the gar¬
lands of each one forming a death-trap to
insect or bird. Meanwhile they were choking
the life out of the exuberant growths around
which they twined.
'W'O VARON, gazing upward, it seemed in-
credible that even this hell-spewed trav¬
esty of a tree could arrest and hold the hur¬
tling dive of an atomo-plane out of control.
But that was what had happened. Impulsive¬
ly he tried to slice a sliver from its bark. It
was tough and resilient like heavy rubber,
almost impossible to cut.
A feeling of intense loneliness, the lone¬
liness of the hopelessly lost swept over him.
The eerie stillness of the expectant jungle
was more horrible than the roar of a savage
“calamar.” Only the moaning dirge of the
wind in the fronds disturbed the silence, and
yet, in the back of his mind an idea was form¬
ing, as if his senses grasped something that
his mind had as yet neither grasped nor ana¬
lyzed. Was it the wind? Varon stood alert,
frowning slightly. His faculties were warn¬
ing him of some event which might spell
danger. And now, fainter than the moan¬
ing of the wind he heard a sound a mono¬
tonous moaning that had the quality of a
death chant.
.. That sound came from the jungle wall
ahead of him. It was a human voice, he
decided. He judged the distance from
whence it came as not too far off. The faint¬
ness of the voice came rather from exhaus¬
tion than anything else, he believed.
After loosening the atomo-blast at his side,
he plunged into the green maze of fronds
and parasites and deadly tamarask, more
poisonous than a cobra’s venom. He didn’t
have far to go.
In a shallow clearing, where a rock up¬
thrust made a tiny island, he saw a slender
form, nude except for a short metallic skirt.
It was a girl. She was lying face downward,
her long auburn hair concealing her tortured
features. Every moment or so those copper-
hued tresses billowed as she uttered an
agonized moan. The condition of her back
shocked Varon. It was bloated and scarred
by racking “arrack” claws. He examined the
wounds and saw although they’d healed on
the surface, the seeping poison had worked
underneath the skin until the entire torso
of the girl had swollen like a ripe melon.
Whoever she was, she appeared to be dy¬
ing in torture and delirium. Her moans were
faint and feeble. Varon swept the tangled
hair aside and peered at the girl’s face. Her
cheeks were flushed with fever but ill as she
was, he could see she possessed remarkable
beauty. The sweetness of her features, the
long heavily fringed eyes, the curve of the
lips appealed to Varon deeply.
“A Terran girl,” he murmured softly.
“What can such a lovely creature be doing
70 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
in the jungle?”
He marveled before he remembered. Thou¬
sands upon many thousands had fled to the
jungles during the long years of suicidal war
between Terra, Mars and Venus, a war which
had culminated in the Great Peace. That had
come after Aladdian, the Empress im¬
prisoned in the Swamp Paradim, had been
taken by pirates to Vulcan, their secret base.
While there she’d learned the secret of Vul¬
canite and the entrance to the fiery planet.
The jungle dwellers had never come out.
They had grown to be a legend in Venus.
Phillip Varon saw what had to be done al¬
though he shrank from the task. He’d never
had to operate on a girl, but it was a matter
of life or death. This was not the time to
procrastinate. From his tunic he drew an
electro-blade, and with a swift slash laid her
back open from neck to waist. Then, he
turned aside, retching. When he could force
himself to resume, he opened his first aid
pack and swabbed the wound clean, then
tinctured it with “sulfaran” and stitched up
the livid wound. He inserted two sulfaran
tablets in the girl’s mouth, and bandaged her
as best he could. When he’d finished, he
lifted her unconscious form and carried it to
the base of the stupendous tree where the
plane was enmeshed.
The heat was a cruel torture to his labor¬
ing lungs. Perspiration dripped in rivulets
down his drawn features. He wondered if he
could climb that montsrous tree with the girl
on his shoulder. One night in that jungle
unconscious, and next morning only her
bones, picked bare, would remain. She would
die, anyway, he thought bitterly. But if she
lived, she might serve' as a guide. She was of
the jungle and must know the jungle! It was
now he saw the “Priestess” sign, a tiny coiled
serpent forming a circle with its tail in its
mouth tattooed upon her left shoulder. Be¬
neath her hair he also found a jeweled circlet
of silver around her head, almost invisible
under the cloud of copper tresses.
“A priestess,” Varon whispered. “What a
retrogression. Back to superstitions and
mumbo-jumbo—a people who once knew
miracles of science.” The wind in the tangle
of foliage sounded like faint laughter.
Although the injuries of the girl had been
grievous ones, the healing lotions which Phil¬
lip Varon had applied to the wounds were
powerful antiseptic medicines. For a day or
so she lingered at death’s door. Then her
strength and strong constitution gained the
upper hand and she began to make a rapid
recovery.
Within a week she was able to talk and to
move around a little. He learned that her
name was Nareida and obtained some details
concerning her history. By accident her back
had become infected. This had alarmed her
superstitious followers, who feared she was
losing her powers as a priestess. When she
had grown delirious they had taken her out
in the jungle and abandoned her. Once, when
she had recovered consciousness for a few
minutes, she had prayed to her gods for aid.
To Nareida, therefore, her rescue by the
tall, tawny-skinned, hazel-eyed giant had
been something in the nature of an answer
to her prayer.
LL this Varon learned during those first
X ®'talks. But inwardly he was burning with
impatience. His mission for Empress Alad¬
dian was of the utmost importance. Momen¬
tous issues were at stake. The fate of Venus
was resting upon Varon’s shoulders and he
was anxious to be gone. Almost he grudged
every moment of her illness, for without her
he could not hope to find his way out of this
vast wilderness of trees and vines. He needed
Nareida as a guide, needed her experience
out of urgent necessity.
At the end of a fortnight she had very
nearly recovered her full strength. Then he
told her what he wished and she had con¬
sented to assist him. Together they had
climbed down the huge tree and gone forth
into the jungle. As soon as they were out of
sight of the space ship Nareida began to
chant softly. The girl’s low tones seemed to
cut through to Varon’s taut nerves like a
heated knife.
“Enough, Nereida!” Phillip Varon’s hand¬
some face was haggard and shiny with sweat
as he glanced over his shoulder at the girl.
He cursed inaudibly. It was enough to
drive a man mad. Two weeks! Two precious
weeks in the race against Dar Vaajo and the
disintegration of the one spot of freedom
left in the three great planets. Unconscious¬
ly he clenched his strong supple hands, des¬
perate at his helplessness.
Intantly the moaning chant of the priest¬
ess, as low and weird as the shifting chiaros¬
curo of the swamp that stretched endlessly
before them in an ocean of verdure, ceased
abruptly, the echoes dwindling down the
cathedral-like aisles of fantastic flora.
Varon turned to glance at the girl. Her
priesthood to the Terran and Venusian dwel¬
lers of the impenetrable jungle was still a
thing of wonderment to him.
Suddenly, from the virgin depths of the
jungle three silent shadows floated swiftly
toward Nereida and Varon. Ten feet from
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI 71
leathery wing-tip to wing-tip, their scaled
dark-blue bodies gleaming, the razor-clawed
reptilians came with the speed of a bullet.
Their serpentine necks weaved as they
snapped their shearing beaks.
Nereida’s startled cry was lost in the tre¬
mendous whirr of wings as the Arracks beat
the torrid air in a final spurt to reach their
prey. They weren’t swift enough!
As Nereida dodged behind the immense
bole of a tree, Varon fired his atomo-pistol,
sending a continuous charge into the raven¬
ous trio. He hit one arrack in its scaly breast
and it disintegrated in mid-air. The one next
to it hung suspended, for an instant, beating
powerful pinions in an effort to halt its speed.
Then the serpentine neck and vulture’s head
disappeared, and a gigantic wing fell, sheared
completely off, to the ground. The third one
in its mad rush, had hurtled into a tree and
had been impaled by gigantic thorns. Its
raucous screams faded gradually as its life-
fluid ebbed.
“Filthy carrion birds,” Phillip cried still
white from the ordeal. “That was a close
call, Nereida.”
“You think so, Golden One!” There was
a hint of amused irony in the girl’s eyes, bril¬
liant as emeralds, as she opened the little bag
of birdskin that hung from her neck, and
extracted a dark-blue arrack scale, and with
a few rapid words that Veron failed to under¬
stand she cast it towards the east. She had
completely recovered, although her face was
alabaster-white.
“Magic?” Phillip Varon’s tone was scorn¬
ful. “That won’t save you from their claws.
I’ll teach you how to fire one of these atomo-
pistols—that’ll be more adequate protection.”
He grinned at her annoyance. “So, throw
away that useless bag of tricks.”
“My Gona—throw away my Gona!” There
was a depth of shocked unbelief in Nereida’s
voice. “Oh, no! My Venusian teachers have
induced a vibration in each article in the
Gona so that they neutralize certain evils.
But you wouldn’t understand.” She ended
abruptly. A flush glowed brightly in her face.
Varon was astounded. “Do you believe in
that nonsense?” he asked her. “Keep the
Gona then.” He shrugged wide shoulders,
both amused and irritated.
Together they moved back to the giant
tree where hung the disabled spacer.
Behind them the eerie screams of the im¬
paled arrack had ceased. As evening fell
the blue light deepened until amethyst shad¬
ows engulfed them and the teeming jungle
awoke. The ghastly heat made a Turkish
bath of the atmosphere, and the tepid breeze
brought the lusty, primeval odors of the end¬
less swamp. In the distance, the coughing
snarl of a calamar came to their ears, as the
tiger-like beast with scaly armor instead of
fur stalked its prey. They paused beneath
the space ship.
“The shelter awaits, Golden One,” Nereida
reminded him, all her jungle instincts warn¬
ing her to seek cover. “Pakmari’s evil when
the ‘blue’ is gone.” She stared upwards at the
silvery hull of the atomo-plane in distaste,
but it was the lesser of two evils. “Perhaps
the ‘Voice from the Air you spoke of, will
come tonight?”
“No, Nereida,” Varon explained resignedly
for the Nth time. “Not tonight, nor any
night. Both the atomo-motor of the plane
and ethero-magnum are completely useless
now. Only the Voice from the Air on my
wrist comes to us, but I can’t speak to them.”
He stretched out his superbly muscled arm
so that the priestess could see the tiny re¬
ceiving set strapped to his wrist.
■PUT Nereida shrank back. She would have
none of this alien magic. Her own, un¬
erring magic was all she wanted. Had it not
brought her this unpredictable golden giant
from the skies to drain the infection from
her back?
And had not the inexhaustible power in
her Gona-bag made him feed her the white
magic pebbles that freed her from illness
and sent the cleansed blood coursing through
her veins?
“No, Deliverer, my Gona is enough,” she
said with conviction. “I have no desire for
your magic voice.” Yet, overwhelming curi¬
osity impelled her to gaze with fascinated
eyes at the watch-like receiver.
There was a soft light in Phillip Varon’s
eyes as he gazed at her for a moment, noting
the long green eyes, the shadowing lashes and
the gleaming auburn hair that rippled over
her shoulders. By an effort he looked away and
turned his attention to the tiny receiving set.
He pressed a knob on the wrist-set and the
instrument began to hum imperceptibly. By
setting the dial, he obtained a faint burst of
symphonic music which began to weave a
spell of enchantment over their solitude.
Suddenly without warning, in the midst
of a melody that climbed the chromatic scales
to a pinnacle of brillancy, a hurtling shape
came coughing raucously. Uttering short, hor¬
rible barks, it lunged out of the stygian depths
of Pakmari. In the purple night, its saucer¬
sized orbs flamed red. For an agonizing in¬
stant Varon felt an overpowering numbness
which paralyzed his limbs. But not for noth-
72 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
ing had he been sent on this desperate mis¬
sion, on the outcome of which depended the
immediate future of a great empire.
By a tremendous effort of will he shock off
the coma and drew himself to one side. As
he did so the titanic, armored shape crashed
by within arm’s length going at terrific mo¬
mentum. Varon grabbed Nereida and heaved
her unceremoniously up the black tree, while
the rhinosaurus dug tremendous claws into
the iridescent mud in an effort to brake its
sliding rush. A tidal wave of mud was thrown
up on either side of its vast bulk.
And then it turned. It stood motionless
for an instant. Its gargantuan head armed
with triple rows of saber-like horns swayed
from side to side. The flaming orbs were
fixed on Varon as if it were puzzled that
anything could outlive its onslought. But
Phillip Varon was ready. He aimed the
atomo-pistol at that cyclopean eye and sent
a beam of atomic fire into the beast’s brain.
With a thunderous bellow of rage, the rhino¬
saurus reared skyward and plunged forward
like a falling skyscraper. After threshing pon¬
derously for a few moments, it lay still. Then
the jungle was silent with the silence of a
dead world. Its most fearful and ruthless
killer was dead.
Then, from high among the distorted
branches of the Black Tree, came a low, tre¬
mulous, ceremonial chant. And Phillip Varon
wearily climbed upwards to where Nereida
awaited him in the slanting cabin of the
imprisoned atomo-plane. As he climbed
symphonic harmony still floated from the re¬
ceiving set on his wrist.
CHAPTER III
Nightmare Jungle
npHERE was no sun. Dawn was a paling
of the mists as the aquamarine light of
Venus’ day flooded the visiports. Phillip Va¬
ron stretched his cramped limbs and gazed
wistfully at the sleeping form of Nereida. She
had fashioned something resembling a couch
out of a pile of Martian Ocelandian furs.
“Awaken, Priestess,” he said, with mock
reverence. “The ‘blue’s’ here once more.”
Arising, he began to prepare a slender
breakfast of concentrates and the Venusian
brand of transplanted coffee that tasted as if
perfume had been mixed in with the grounds.
Nereida uncurled when she detected the
aroma of the steaming liquid.
She took her share of vitaminic concen¬
trates and drank the stimulating coffee with
pleasure. Her firm graceful shoulders moved
with the smooth flowing motions of her arms
as she combed out the flowing glory of her
hair. For this service, she used a magnificent
Nautilus shell she took from a receptable in
her metallic skirt. Varon watched her, a
tightness in his throat making his voice sound
strange to him when he spoke.
“I think that you’re strong enough to
travel,” he said. “We must go today. I need
you Nereida.” His tone was quiet. He won¬
dered if she knew how much he really needed
her. “I’d like you to guide me. You’ll be
richly rewarded and, if you wish, your people,
also, although they did cast you out into the
jungle to die.”
“Reward, Golden One?” Her laughter
filled the cabin. “What reward is needed?
You saved my life, didn’t you? I’ll guide
you.” Her smile was radiant. “Serving you
will be reward enough!”
Varon took two steps towards her, but he
checked himself, his heart pounding and his
veins on fire.
“Then,” he said quickly, “We start almost
immediately. We bear east, for there’s a mys¬
tery that should be cleared up and already
I may be too late.” The thought worried
him and made him wince. “There’s almost
no time!”
At the mention of the word “east,” a slow
change came over Nereida’s face. It was a
look of awe and terror.
“East, Golden One?” Her hand fluttered
to her throat, and her green eyes widened.
“East through Pakmari ? My life’s yours, but
don’t ask this of me. For there I dare not
go!” Varon detected finality in the hushed
voice of the girl.
“Look.” Varon was exasperated. “Pas¬
senger Spacers having disappeared without
trace, and when searching parties in ships
were sent out, they disappeared too 1 The fuel
to provide power for the industries of Venus
is almost exhausted and we have no means
of obtaining any more. Unless we destroy
the menace that is preventing our ships from
reaching their destination, unless we can send
out exploration parties to find sources of
Uranium or radioactive minerals, another
great war will be upon us—and we’ll be van¬
quished. Can’t you understand?”
In his desperation, Varon was pounding
his fist on the Columbian table. He noticed
his wrist radio. It gave him an idea. With
a swift gesture he loosened the receiving
set and had strapped it on Nereida’s arm
before she knew what he was about. Then
with a wrench he tore the Gona bag from
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI 73
her neck and pocketed it.
“You have my magic and it will protect
you,” he said. “I have your Gona. Now,”
we’re inseparable.
Nereida was deathly white. “You win, O
Deliverer,” she whispered bitterly. “So long
as you have my Gona, I must remain with
you.” She stared with a mixture of fear and
desperation at the receiver strapped to her
arm. Phillip Varon was filled with shame.
He hated himself for having to force her to
guide him.
Trying to ignore her, Varon began to pack
all the available supplies of concentrates and
vitaminics and medicines, which he placed
in a water-proof knap-sack. He added two
atomo-torches to light their way and dressed
himself in a tight, light suit of beryllium-
mesh. Then he wrapped the jacket of one
of his beryllium suits around Nereida. And
with the girl following him, he descended the
Black Tree.
As the hours passed, during their journey
through the jungle, Nereida’s hysteria
seemed to leave her. Unerringly she guided
the blond giant through the hidden solid
ground that threaded through the hungry
swamp. Twice arracks glided overhead, but
atomo-blasts sent them whirling into the
mud. The great night-roving carnivora slept
during the “blue,” but equally fearsome,
though smaller, saurians watched from the
miles-wide sink-holes.
Nereida never faltered. She slid through
fronds and tangles of parasitic lianas like a
shadow. Behind her, Varon strode half-
stifled in his beryllium suit, drawing comfort
from the fact that aside from his atomo-pis-
tols, he had one precious weapon—a small
revolver-like cylinder whose supernal fire
could blast or pierce anything. Only the aw¬
ful destruction it wrought was always a
danger to its owner.
Hour after hour they moved forward. As
the afternoon waned, Varon’s body felt as
if it were on fire, and the heady incense of
the stupendous blossoms had become a tor¬
ture to his numbed brain. At last Nereida
raised a trembling finger. By that time Varon
was tottering on his feet. He grasped a limb
of a giant frond to steady himself. Abruptly
the limb flung itself back violently as a ven¬
omous scaly head, jet black, attached to a
sleek, green body, reared up. Varon blasted
the weaving head into vapor.
JM'EREIDA had disappeared. Presently
x Varon heard the rapid staccato of tiny
voices. After a while Nereida reappeared fol¬
lowed by several of the “Little People,” the
Venusians of the Jungle. Their eyes were
round with wonderment as they gazed at the
blond giant. All of them were armed with
slender thorns dipped in the green sap of
the perilian which Phillip knew to be fatal.
There was no known antidote.
“They’ll provide a water-vessel, Golden
One,” Nereida explained. “Now give me my
Gona and take your ‘Voice of the Air.’ Into
the Forbidden Region I cannot go.”
There was a great sadness in the girl’s
eyes, green as the jungle itself.
“No, we must go on,” Varon insisted.
He shook his head wearily. Although every
fiber of his being shrieked for rest and
surcease from the unbearable heat and
miasmic vapors of the swamp, his will was
unshaken. Fever was beginning to rim his
eyes and a singing hum in his ears made the
tiny voices of the Venusians indistinct as
they offered to take him with them to safety.
When he steadfastly refused their offers,
they grew angry. So he flung the metal
mesh cowl of his beryllium suit over his
head.
At that same instant he saw the “Little
People” place their blow-guns to their lips.
He didn’t hear Nereida’s commanding cry:
“Don’t!” But she was too late. A shower
of deadly thorns thudded against Varon’s
cowl, against his chest—and fell harmlessly
to the ground. With cries of fear and dis¬
may his pygmy attackers fled into the
jungle.
He nodded to Nereida. “Lead!” he com¬
manded her, and strode forward.
Inwardly, he hated himself for it, and a
burning shame that surpassed his burning
fever made him avert his gaze from the
girl. But something far greater than
Nereida, or for that matter his own life was
at stake.
They hadn’t gone fifty paces when a
wall of green rose, seemingly impenetrable,
before them, and Varon stooped to crawl
through the narrow opening where Nereida
had gone through.
Beyond was a great stream, black as pol¬
ished onyx. An immense flight of rose-col¬
ored garzas rose in a tumult of beating
pinions as they emerged on the bank, and
scattered grey-backed saurians hurriedly sub¬
merged in the black depths. Tied to a pro¬
truding-root, a small fleet of carcha boats,
fashioned of the feather-light bark of the
carcha tree, swayed in the gentle current.
Varon selected the largest and motioning
to Nereida to enter the boat, seated himself
at the middle facing the stern. Then he
rowed with powerful strokes until they were
74 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
in the center of the stream. Not until then
did he relax, throwing back the beryllium
cowl and opening the stifling metal-mesh
suit. A rising breeze redolent of a million
flowers plucked with elfin fingers at their
dripping faces. Once as the frail craft
glided noiselessly forward, a bird the size
of a small pheasant swished past barely
over their heads on outspread wings, ut¬
tering three liquid, melancholy notes.
Nereida rapidly crossed both of her arms as
the magnificent song-bird, flashing like an
iridescent blue jewel, sped toward the
jungle.
Varon couldn’t suppress a gasp at the
startling beauty of the winged creature.
It was like a blue flame over the water and
the sweetness of the three notes it had ut¬
tered were memorable.
“That’s the most beautiful bird I’ve ever
seen! What is it, Nereida?”
“The azerine, sacred bird of the gods. It
has blessed us, Golden One.” Varon smiled.
To these people of the forests, even the
simplest things had a mysterious meaning.
A cloud of insects descended upon them
with the coming of night, ravenous,
determined. An overpowering weariness
cramped Phillip Varon’s muscles, and his
eyes began to close of their own volition.
Time after time he lighted a Venusian ciga¬
rette to keep awake and smoke out the
singing swarm, but he knew he could not last
long. He nudged Nereida, now huddled
at his side.
“Awaken, Nereida, we cannot stay on the
stream all night. We must find a place
where we can make camp until the ‘blue’
“Further east,” Nereida replied with a
shudder, “there’s a hill that’s hollow. It is
the country of the libelulas. There’s no
danger, except from the libelulas themselves,
for all the jungle fears them and will not go
near. At night, the libelulas sleep.”
The libelulas, Venus’ rainbow-colored
dragon flies were insects which converted
nectar and pollen into honey. They had glit¬
tering, transparent wings and steel-hard stin¬
gers an inch long. Their hives, often two
stories, high, were gigantic clay honey¬
combs. To come near them meant death,
for as many as three million libelulas in¬
habited each hive.
Varon rowed on, every moment a burning
agony in his muscles. It seemed to him as
if they’d never arrive at the place chosen by
the priestess. As if in a dream he heard
Nereida speak.
“Give me the paddles now, Deliverer,” she
said. “I know the entrance through a nar¬
row creek. We will save many miles that
way.”
Silently the boat slid under a tangled
canopy of foliage, and Varon saw an open¬
ing appear in the jungle. Before them was
a narrow water-way, jungle-walled on each
side. But he saw something else that made
him forget his weariness and burning fever.
With the impenetrable heart of Pakmari, a
resinous torch cast a blood-red light on the
left bank of the tributary.
M^OR an instant it flashed then was gone.
But in that fleeting, nightmare instant
Varon had seen the black, polished body of
a Janussa warrior outlined in the torch’s illu¬
mination. Nereida had seen him also.
Janussas, the murderous black tribes of
Venus’ jungles!
With the alacrity of fear Nereida steered
to the right bank and leaped out of the boat
before it touched shore. Varon drew the
fragile carcha vessel up on the bank just as
an unearthly scream sounded behind him.
He^whirled and saw Nereida in the grip of
a grinning black. The right arm of the
savage was lifted for he was in the act of
plunging a rhinosaurus horn into her heart.
Varon had no time to aim and fire his
pistol. With a leap he would have thought
impossible five minutes before, he tackled
the Janussa, bowling him over like a ten-pin.
But the savage was up in an instant, pois¬
ing the murderous horn like a spear. He
rushed Varon with a fierce cry of triumph,
and was met by a blow that crashed against
his jaw with the force of a sledge-hammer.
It was as if some force had lifted him
and flung him backward. He rolled over and
over. Finally he gathered his legs under him
and sprang into the creek. Darkness covered
his flight.
“Tell your people there are many of us,”
Phillip Varon shouted after him. “Tell them
we have magic guns—many guns that will
destroy your tribe.” His hoarse shouts
echoed and re-echoed in the brooding
swamp.
Nereida, rising from the iridescent mud
where she had fallen, gazed at Varon with
a great tenderness and pity.
“The Pakmari fever has made him mad,”
she murmured. For where was the army
Varon spoke of? With the fatalism of her
Venusian environment, she resigned herself
to death, it seemed inevitable to her now.
From the left bank of the creek insane
cries, and battle chants made the night
hideous. A shower of poisoned slivers came
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI
like a rain of death. And then the priestess
was treated to a memorable performance
by her companion.
Growling, screaming hoarsely, speaking in
various dialects, intermingled with high-
pitched commands, Varon was desperately
trying a ventriloquist’s trick of producing
many voices. He changed places along the
bank as fast as he could, firing his atomo-
pistol. The blue-green flashes kept spear¬
ing Janussas as he ran from spot to spot,
to give the illusion of several men firing.
Screams of rage and agony came from
the other side of the river and more poison-
tipped darts pattered down. Once the entire
tribe started to cross, and Varon ran like a
man possessed, firing rapidly from different
places. As the blacks fell writhing in the
stagnant water, the swarm of Janussas fell
back, wondering if there were more stran¬
gers where they’d seen but two.
It was then that a miracle came wing¬
ing out of the depths of Pakmari. Attracted
by the blue-green flashes of the atomo-pistol,
a swarm of gigantic Venusian fire-flies, their
blue-green lights flickering on and off, swept
over their heads and across the creek, creat¬
ing the illusion that hundreds of atomo-
flashes were being fired. There was an instant
of shocked silence. Then the Janussas fled,
leaving their dead and dying behind, con¬
vinced that an army faced them on the
other bank.
Human flesh can endure only so much.
Phillip Varon, his senses reeling, vaguely
knew that he was being guided by the falter¬
ing Nereida, as they stumbled through the
purple shadows. He didn’t know how long
they dragged themselves out of the treach¬
erous quagmires. At last the ground be¬
neath their feet began to feel more solid, and
dawn found them in an immense clearing,
dotted by the towering hives of greenish
clay of the libelulas.
Varon gently let go of Nareida’s wrist and
squatted down by her side. He had fully
intended to keep guard, but he was more
exhausted than he realized. Soon his head
drooped and he fell sound asleep.
CHAPTER IV
Nareida’s Magic
nOURS later, Phillip Varon awoke to a
sense of danger with that incredible
awareness of the “sensitives.” He raised
himself on an elbow and swept the clearing
75
with cautious eyes, it was “blue” again.
He reached over and gently shook the girl
awake. Again he heard the sound that had
roused him from the sleep of exhaustion, the
sound of many voices. It was the excited
garbling of a party of Janussas returning
from nocturnal hunt.
Quickly he rose, giving Nereida a helping
hand, and they raced for concealment be¬
hind a libelula hive. But the Janussas,
emerging from the jungle, spied them. The
savages stood stock still in surprise and
then rushed forward with battle-cries, bran¬
dishing spears and rhinosaurus’ horns. Varon
and Nereida were but a scant three yards
from the gigantic hive when the ground be¬
gan to give under their feet. Nereida lurched
against a side of the hive and part of it
crumbled into dust under the impact of her
body. They raced onward now, away from
mortal danger.
A few libelulas fluttered from the shat¬
tered hive to investigate, and then a growing
stream of the deadly insects flew out. As
Varon and the girl sped away, a tremendous
roar—the deafening crescendo of millions of
wings—told them the libelulas had attacked
the blacks. Harrowing screams and sobbing,
babbling cries were drowned in the roar of
winged sound. The Janussas had found an
enemy they hadn’t bargained for.
As Varon and Nereida traveled east, they
discovered the going was much easier. There
were no quagmires, the ground was firm.
Varon noted that it was no longer a jungle,
but more like Terran forests, in which he had
hunted several times. After a while, even
the vegetation grew sparse, until the ground
was almost arid and a strange green glow
seemed to permeate everything. As the glow
increased, Nereida began softly to chant the
“Death Ceremonial” of Venus known even
to the jungle people. Varon tried to reas¬
sure her, but the priestess only gave him a
wan smile and continued to chant. The
green glow was' brightening rapidly now,
until the few gnarled and twisted trees
that remained stood black and fantastic in
the ghastly light.
At last nothing remained but a vast, shim¬
mering expanse of phosphorescent green that
stretched before them on all sides. The
unbearable radiation which assailed their
eyes was like a sea of flame, coruscating in
waves of radiant, blinding color. With a cry
of wonder Varon drew the cowl of his beryl¬
lium-mesh suit over his head and also made
Nereida protect her eyes.
So this was the key to the mystery! An
immense lake of radioactive mud, like a cos-
,76 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
mic cancer in the jungle’s heart lay before
them. No wonder atomo-engines failed.
No wonder the most powerful radios went
dead. Still, without anything to concen¬
trate and direct the fearful radiations, most
of them would be diffused, Varon thought.
Through the visiplate of the cowl that
protected his face, he peered into this
fabulous maelstrom, which had brought dis¬
aster to the fleets of Venus. Then he dis¬
cerned the silvery shaft of vulcanian, the only
metal that could withstand radioactive bom¬
bardment, about fifty yards from the bank.
At the very pinnacle of the soaring shaft,
an enormous globe of a transparent sub¬
stance seemed to be filled with swirling green
light. A magnetic needle!
Aghast, Phillip Varon now knew the
answer to all the questions which had
troubled the Imperial Council. No wonder
great passenger spacers were guided to this
spot and thrown into inertia, their power¬
ful engines neutralized. He was no longer
surprised all had sped to their doom in the
umplumbed depths of the radioactive lake of
mud. Who was responsible for this devilish
contrivance? Who had satanically guided
the spacers to the inexhaustible source of
atomic power, only to seal them forever
to silence?
At his side, Nereida was kneeling on the
ground, with bowed head, chanting the so¬
norous phrases of the “Ceremonial.”
“O God of infinite dominion-”
But Phillip Varon was not listening.
He had drawn the odd, revolver-like
weapon he had treasured during the ghastly
journey through Pakmari and now he had
aimed it at the shaft near the base of the
structure.
“Only Mars can be responsible for this,”
he was murmuring. “Only those fiends could
have compelled suicide squads of workmen to
erect this needle of death.”
He pressed the firing knob, and a stream
of awful incandescence, brighter than the
green flames themselves, shot out.
The invulnerable Vulcanite turned blue,
then violet, then cherry red. Stubbornly it
resisted, even that hellish, disruptive force.
But at last the supernal fire from the weapon
began to melt the metal under the disrupt¬
ing barrage. The radioactive lake became
convulsed as if by a subterranean upheaval.
A tidal wave of the shimmering stuff swept
upwards and slowly, unbelievably, a mon¬
strous black shape emerged from the radio¬
active slime to glare at them from immense,
pale yellow eyes.
It was as if a mountainous Medusa with
snaky locks had risen from the depths. Gigan¬
tic tentacles waved from the harrowing body
of the Martian octopus, similar to the ones
infesting the subterranean, mud-caves of
Mars where the Uranium deposits, with their
U 235 isotope, were found.
“So they hadn’t forgotten even to place
one of their fearful monsters here as some
sort of a guardian!” Varon mused grimly.
Meanwhile the side of the shaft had been
eaten through by the stream of disintegra¬
tive force and had begun to sway slightly.
One stupendous tentacle of the Martian
creature curled around half-cut shaft, then
another and another. Varon then directed his
fire at the octopus.
/% SHRILL, ear-shattering scream rose
from the “thing.” The radioactive lake
was convulsed by the thrashing throes of the
dying monster as it sent mountains of the
glittering stuff skywards. It braced its hid¬
den tentacles in the mud and sought to pull
itself up the shaft, but the weakened struc¬
ture swayed and then came crashing down.
Varon did not wait to see any more. He
had grasped the shivering form of Nereida
and was racing east, away from the fearful
upheaval. Nor did he slacken his pace until
the radioactive lake was but a faint green
glow in the distance.
It was with a cry of gladness, three days
later, that Varon recognized the snow-capped
mountains of the Eastern Range in the dis¬
tance. Blue and purple shadowed, the mighty
ramparts of Venus lifted their gleaming
crowns of eternal snows into the shimmering
sky. They had now entered the park-like
country of the “Cave People,” where in ac¬
cordance with Venusian Law which forbids
interference with the normal development of
all the peoples of the planet, the white, bar¬
baric race of cave-dwellers led a nomadic
existence.
To cross their domain without permission
was dangerous. Phillip Varon and Nereida
kept to the trees and tried to make their pas¬
sage as inconspicuous as possible. But all
Varon’s caution and even Nereida’s forest-
craft failed them. Silently they were stalked
and examined by the barbarians. Nereida
they recognized as a great prize, a valued
mate for a chieftain. But this great, golden
giant who had invaded their domain—what
manner of man was he? Surely, he would be
a foe worthy of being tested in battle!
Word sped back to their chief. Mounted
on the three-toed horses of Venus, whose
single horn make them resemble nothing so
much as the fabled unicorn of Terra, mes-
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI 77
sengers carried the tidings to the rocky
caverns of the tribes. And suddenly at a
bend of the shadowy trail where a park-like
clearing made an island of suffused blue light,
Varon came face to face with a towering,
muscular Venusian. The powerful body of
the chief was caparisoned in leather harness,
embossed in metals and semi-precious stones.
Cold, cruel dark eyes stared at Varon from
beneath a gorgeous plumed head-dress. Be¬
hind him a group of retainers rested their
lances.
Varon faced the chief with the knowledge
he would have to fight. The muscular hand
of his opponent was grasping the thick shaft
of a gigantic sword. Varon measured the
length of the long weapon and, then glanced
at the pitifully inadequate three foot thorn
that was all he had to defend himself with.
Varon knew most of his strength was gone.
His fever wracked and emaciated body was
trembling with weakness.
Then his lips tightened as he remembered
the lake of radioactive mud and what it
his head and again brought it down with
enough force to split a tree. But Varon again
parried it with such precision that the razor-
sharp blade slid off, singing, to one side.
Then Varon closed in. His weapon flick¬
ered in and out so rapidly that it barely
seemed to touch the brawny forearm of the
chief. Yet when it came away it left a deep,
flowing gash from elbow to wrist. With a
bellow of humiliation and rage that this bat¬
tered, filth-smeared stranger could have
drawn first blood, the chief lunged in a tre¬
mendous coup de grace, but his sword-point
speared the air. As he tried to recover his
balance, Varon’s three-foot thorn tore the
bejewelled harness from the chief’s shoulders
and slashed the flesh beneath. If he’d had a
sword the battle would have ended.
The chief’s wrath was ominous, all the
more so because he had become silent. In
his heart burned a single idea—to kill!
Phillip Varon was staggering from exhaus¬
tion. He stared into the hawk-like visage
and found no mercy there. Before his eyes
Joe Dunn finds himself alone in a completely deserted metropolis—and how he
solves the problem of existence for himself makes THE LAST MAN IN NEW
YORK, Paul MacNamara’s novelet next issue, a yarn to hold you spellbound!
would mean to Venus, harnessed as atomic-
power. And what would happen to Nareida,
if he were beaten. The thought of her at
the mercy of this thick-skulled savage sent a
wave of rage surging through him. It seemed
a mockery of fate that the pugnaciousness of
a barbarian chief should block the path of
Nereida and himself when Gloria, the great
industrial city, was now within reaching dis¬
tance. A slow smile parted his lips. With
something of the careless gallantry that had
always marked his approach to danger, he
raised the point of his thorn in the immemo¬
rial salute.
The chief saluted in return, slightly puz¬
zled at the smile. Behind him, his retainers
grinned openly. The long-haired golden one
would make a worthy foe, and that golden
head such a trophy as rival clans had never
seen. A hungry look came into their eyes
as they watched.
Without preamble the warrior chief struck,
slashing downwards in a mighty blow that
should have cleft Phillip Varon in two. But
the Terran dodged aside, smiling at the
clumsy attack. As he side-stepped, his
pointed thorn flicked and the chief’s sword
slid along the steel-hard thorn without harm.
But the chief had no intention of giving up
the attack. He had whirled his sword over
floated visions of sudden death, with his mis¬
sion unfinished. In desperation, once more
his thorn feinted to one side, flickered and
drove deep into the exposed shoulder of the
warrior, leaving a wound from which dark
blood flowed over the chief’s bright Venu¬
sian spider silks. Perspiration was rolling
down Varon’s face. Swiftly Varon tore open
his clothing over his chest and inhaled great
gulps of air.
r W , HE chief was circling warily now. He had
■"•learned to his utter amazement that he
had met a great swordsman, greater even
than himself. Save for the disparity in weap¬
ons, the chief would have been dead. A ter¬
rible anger and admiration struggled for
supremacy in his barbaric mind. But he must
kill—kill! Else he would not be chief for
long! Already his retainers were wavering
in their loyalty, and wondering what manner
of being was this? The jungle had spewed
him out. Yet ill and half-starved, armed only
with a long thorn, he had been able to stand
up to their great chief. It would make a tale
that would long live as a legend around their
camp fires.
The chief must have sensed their scorn,
for he charged Varon, whirling the gleaming
blade overhead until it flashed like bright
78 THRILLING WONDER STORIES
silver. Then he brought it down in a mighty
slash, intending to shear Varon’s head from
his shoulders. Varon leaped back. Summon¬
ing what remained of his fast ebbing strength,
he engaged the chief’s blade with his thorn.
With a strange, flickering motion, he twisted
the thorn and sent the chief’s sword flying
through the air. It was the “Machiavelli,”
the ancient Italian stroke named after its in¬
ventor. But the chief knew nothing of that.
He only knew that one moment he had
thought he had his opponent vanquished, and
the next he’d found himself disarmed!
Mingled with his amazement was the thought
that death had come upon him. Varon could
kill him at will now.
“Finish him!” It was Nereida speaking in
a cold voice.
At this instant there was a whirr of wings.
Out of the skies came hurtling a wondrous
bird of translucent blue, an azurine, closely
pursued by a screaming hawk that plummeted
down like a lightning bolt. With a plaintive
note of infinite melancholy, the azurine flew
into the open front of Phillip Varon’s beryl¬
lium garment, just as the enraged hawk
flashed by Varon’s face. It passed so close
that powerful pinions raked the Terran’s
cheek.
There was a moment of startled silence.
Now before Phillip’s uncomprehending eyes,
an amazing transformation took place.
“The dove of the gods,” the chief said, in
awe.
Taking off his plumed helmet, he threw it
on the ground. He had no doubt now why
he could not vanquish Phillip Varon. In his
eyes, the Terran had supernatural protection.
Together with the retainers, he knelt and
bowed his head.
“Go in peace, divine one,” the chief whisp¬
ered. “At the turn of the road you’ll find our
horses, with provisions in the saddle-bags.
Take what you need.”
An instant later the white barbarians were
gone silently into the forest, as silently as
they had come. Imbedded in the ground,
the chief’s sword vibrated in the wind.
Days later, Phillip Varon lay in bed, recov¬
ering from the fever. Nearby hovered Na-
reida who had been nursing him faithfully.
On this particular day Varon was surround¬
ed by the greatest scientists known to Venus.
One of these scientists had observed that the
receiving set Nereida wore on her arm should
be placed in a museum, together with all
other items which Varon and she had carried
during their momentous journey through
the jungles.
Nereida shook her lovely head emphat¬
ically. “I’ll never part with it,” she said.
“But why, my dear?” Varon inquired. “I
can get you another one.”
“It wouldn’t have the same vibrations,”
Nereida told him. “This one has power. You
used all my Gona. It is but just that I should
use your magic too.”
“I used your Gona?” Varon echoed in
astonishment. “I merely kept your bag as a
means to keep you with me—I hope for life.”
He grinned. “Anyway, here’s the bag, you
can have it back.”
He extended the small bird-skin bag to the
priestess. But Nereida waved it away with
a gesture of utter desdain.
“It isn’t any good now,” she said. “It’s all
used up. Open it, Phillip. Look inside.”
Her voice was urgent.
Phillip Varon hesitated, conscious of the
amused smiles of his distinguished scientific
guests. But there was no denying Nereida.
He opened the Gona bag and dumped the
entire contents on the bed.
It contained: three glistening arrack scales,
a shard from a rhinosaurus’ horn, a minute
carcha boat, a desiccated firefly, a petrified
libelula and the exquisite blue feather of an
azurine!
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HELICOPTEH INVASION
By FORD SMITH
A Grim and Deadly Aerial Menace Suddenly Strikes!
T HE home base was a dream of an air¬
port. Cylindrical in shape and with
a rounded dome, it towered so high
above the plain that few if any of the in¬
habitants knew how many levels there were.
It seemed to be one continuous mass of in¬
terlaced girders and arched structures, over¬
laid with a camouflage of green foliage and
dotted with a profusion of white and yellow
tubes. These tubes exuded a heavy and
exotic gas that hovered in a constant cloud
around the base.
This, so Anophe understood, was a pro¬
tective shield against the enemy, but she
had never noticed that the gas proved much
of a deterrent to the birdmen. Many a
hard-fought aerial engagement took place
with the enemy in the very shadow of the
home base. Anophe was an Amazon
flier, as so many of her blood-thirsty and
warlike race were. She was on scout patrol
now, purely a routine maneuver.
How long the war had been going
on, Anophe had no idea. History was not
her forte. All she knew about that was
that it had been carried on for genera¬
tions, since long before her people had
migrated from the misty swamp region of
this great planet and made their home on
this high, lush plateau.
As she circled droningly above the home
base now, she could see the low-lying
green jungle—like a flat emerald carpet far
beneath her monoplane wings—stretching
for miles around the tower. Overhead, in a
brassy sky, hung the blazing disk of the
yellow-white star which was this planet’s
sun. Far off to the left she could see the
immense perpendicular white cliffs which
dominated this entire plateau jungle. Dimly
she could make out the black oblong open¬
ings of the caves that honeycombed the
cliffs.
A curious race of moronic giant bipeds
lived there, earthbound creatures that lum¬
bered about on the ground and trampled the
matted jungle clumsily beneath their
shapeless padlike feet.
Occasionally they blundered into the area
of the home base, but they rarely did any
damage. In reprisal Anophe had accom¬
panied more than one night-flying raid on
the cliffs where many a squadron had
drawn blood. But in the main these were
sporadic raids. Anophe’s people were dis¬
tinctly an aerial race, and the huge bipeds
were simply too gross to be handled prop¬
erly as a stock food supply. So there was
a sort of truce between the alien races.
It was against the more normal yet ter¬
rible birdmen that Anophe and her squad¬
ron mates fought their bitterest battles.
If only the war would cease so that she
could settle down to a lifetime of peace
with her chosen mate. But Cules, her fiance,
was also a member of the aerial corps operat¬
ing from the home base. He was in another
squadron on the night patrol.
Anophe herself preferred the dusk patrol.
It was far more pleasant flying in the cool
of twilight when the geysers erupted. This
phenomenon occurred regularly after sun¬
down. There was no precise pattern to it.
From varying places about the jungled plain
hundreds of fine jets of water would
spout heavenward for perhaps an hour and
drop back toward the tundra in the form
of misty rain. Anophe had tried to puzzle
this queer thing out, but she had been
forced to drop the research and leave it
for the more scientifically minded, as the
geysers appeared at different spots with no
orderly rhythm.
S UDDENLY Anophe was shaken out of
her musing as she sighted one of the
bomber bird ships coming in at nine o’clock.
This was strange. Usually the birdmen
attacked about geyser time.
Anophe sent an impulse swiftly through
her wireless antennae. “Scout seven on
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
80
B patrol to home base!” she radioed.
“Enemy approaching from northwest.”
She radioed her warning three times,
got an acknowledgment, and then tilted her
nose and dived for the home base tower.
One scout plane could do nothing against
such a flying fortress. There was no point
in sacrificing her life in vain. But the
enemy had sighted her and was on her
tail in a flash, dive-bombing with such
furious speed that Anophe wondered why
the heavy wings did not vibrate off.
Anophe was no mean flier herself, though,
and she looped into a side-slip and slid
under the nearest arch of the home base
just inches ahead of the pursuit. Baffled,
the enemy craft pulled up in a short zoom
that was a masterly bit of flying that nar¬
rowly averted disaster. For a few moments
pandemonium reigned. Then, beaten off
and foiled, the bird ship whirred away in
the direction of the white cliffs.
From the eighty-third level of the tower
Anophe watched the huge fortress depart.
She caught the signal of someone sending
from the inner citadel of the base. In¬
stantly she tuned in and listened.
“It is growing obvious daily that we must
change our plan of campaign,” came the
radioed message. “The enemy are growing
day by day. If it were not for our superior
flying we would be devastated. Should the
enemy develop our own type of ship for
flying backward as well as forward, our
doom would be sealed.”
Another radioed message chimed in,
probably from one of the lookout posts
in the dome of the tower. “You are think¬
ing of the helicopter, sir. But there is no
danger of that. Nobody has been able yet
to perfect such a flying technique. Ours
is the closest to it.”
“Ah yes, but imagine the havoc such an
enemy could wreak,” radioed the first
sender. “A flier that can dart in any direc¬
tion or hover at will, that would make
an invasion of this home base simply a
matter of slaughter. We must prepare
against such an eventuality.”
Anophe broke in to radio her safe ar¬
rival and then went to seek Cules. She
found him resting for his coming night flight
and relaxed beside him for a space, telling
him about her narrow escape.
“But we don’t want just to improve our
defenses,” she concluded, vibrating angrily.
“We are an essentially military race. What
we want is to develop our offensive tac-
Cules surveyed her lazily. “Take it easy,
Anophe,” he telepathed. “Our defenses are
impregnable. Don’t let the high command
panic you with that helicopter stuff.”
But Cules was wrong. It wasn’t a fort¬
night before the entire home base was
buzzing with great alarm. An enemy bird
ship had come in the late afternoon, flying
with incredible speed at the tower. It
checked short on the wing and actually
hovered there beside the tower, its wings
only a hazy blurr as it calmly attached a
slender hose to one of the gas tubes.
“By all the flights!” shrilled a radioed
communique from an observation post.
“This enemy flier is actualy refueling on
our protective gas. Less than half the size
of the regular enemy ship, this is a perfect
helicopter.”
Swarm after swarm of defense fliers rose
from the various levels to give battle.
Anophe and Cules were in the van, Cules
awake to the acute danger at last. But
to no avail. A second enemy craft whirred
into the battle, both birdmen dropping
easily down through the various levels
and reaches of the home base and stabbing
in lightninglike thrusts at the clouds of de¬
fending fighters.
The battle raged furiously through the
gathering dusk and into the twilight. Fight¬
ing valiantly Anophe flew once to the de¬
fense of the hard-pressed Cules. But she
was too late. Just as she neared him she
saw one of the hovering helicopters dart
forward and spear Cules. One instant he
was flying there—the next instant he had
simply vanished.
With a mighty despairing anger Anophe
swerved and darted straight at the enemy,
resolved to crash that deadly flier even
though she died herself. She did not see
the second flier dropping swiftly behind her.
She felt the down draft of air and heard the
whirr of his wings too late. . . .
TWO men came out of the big white
H house and strolled across the smooth
lawn, their cigarets glowing like big fireflies.
“Watch where you step, John,” said the
first man. “The lawn’s just been sprinkled.”
“So I see,” replied the other. “What a
lovely bower of honeysuckle you have here.
I noticed the aroma the minute we came
out of the house. But aren’t the mosqui¬
toes pretty bad, George?”
“They were for a while,” said the host.
“The chimney swifts just couldn’t get at
them. But a pair of humming birds
moved in recently and pretty well cleaned
them out.”
WONDERS
OF WAR
The Role of Science m
Combat on All Fronts
B ullet-resisting glass for planes—
Fighting planes can be given transparent
armor in critical spots through the invention
of John H. Fox of Pittsburgh. The device
consists of a thick, laminated series of safety-
glass plates suspended in a frame within the
enclosed cockpit and afford direct protection
to the pilot’s head and neck. Properly devel¬
oped, this discovery should end the business
about people in glass houses throwing stones
for all time.
AAULTIPLE CLIP MAGAZINES FOR RIFLES—
,v * A box-like magazine holding as many as
ten or a dozen clips of cartridges features a
ride on which James H. Carithers of Benton-
ville, Arkansas, obtained a recent patent. The
clips stand vertically, side by side, and as the
cartridges in each are used up, the next clip is
pushed over to take its place. Thus a single
loading can serve a long run of Bring.
P ISTOL ROCKET FOR SIGNAL FLARES—A
weapon that looks like something straight
out of science fiction has been invented by
Ralph Anzalone of Oceanside, New York. It
is a single-shot, large-caliber pistol, which
starts a rocket on its way with a small charge
of powder. The rocket’s own propellent
charge, ignited as it is kicked out of the bar¬
rel, then takes over and carries the missile
high into the air, where it functions as a
signal flare.
N azis operate on pilots• glands to in¬
crease CEILING— According to current
scientific reports, The Nazis are enabling their
pilots to fly to higher altitudes by removing
part of their thyroid glands. However,
American scientists are not worried. They
have achieved the same results by small doses
of thiourea and thiouracil in laboratory ex¬
periments without harm to the subjects.
A uxiliary landing flaps aid speed plane
LANDINGS —Auxiliary landing flaps for
planes to provide additional braking surface in
landing have been devised by inventor Thom¬
as Knox of Bristol, Pennsylvania, and William
I. Steiglitz of Morrisville, Pennsylvania.
The auxiliary flaps are recessed into the
main flaps, and in action stand out at a greater
angle. The flaps project in pairs, one above,
the other beneath the main flap. Large open¬
ings in their surfaces minimize eddy cur-
/ NOTHER HIGGINS BOAT— Andrew J. Hig-
'' gins. New Orleans boat builder already
famed for his landing craft now in use by
the United Nations forces all over the world,
has put forward another design for a craft
to land trucks, tanks, guns et cetera on shelv¬
ing beaches. As in previous designs, this boat
is flat-bottomed, with a wide bow that hinges
downward to form a landing ramp. New
feature is a water-excluding boot, of rubber,
treated canvas or the like, over the hinge
joint, to prevent waves from sloshing aboard
while the vehicles or guns are being run
INSECT ENEMIES FOILED— Mosquitoes and
• other dive bombers of nature, so pestiferous
in tropical climes where much of this war
is being fought, are taking a KO from a
new type of fabric invented by F. A. Gill of
Chicago. Noticing that supposedly insect-
proof clothing failed to function when it lay
directly on the skin, permitting the pests to
drill right through it, he devised a way to
keep such insects at more than stinger’s length
by securing a close-meshed outer layer of net¬
ting over a foundation of crossed strips of
sponge rubber, felt or other light material. A
complete suit covers the wearer from ankles
to pate, has slide fasteners to permit speedy
disrobing and a short slide-closed vent over
the mouth to ease conversation.
C IMPLIFIED OXYGEN HELMET FOR FLYERS—
J An improved oxygen helmet for aviators
has been devised by S. A. Morehouse of
Glendale, California. Instead of having the
pressure-reducing bag in an awkward posi¬
tion on the wearer’s chest, it incorporates the
bag into the structure of the helmet Btting
over the flyer’s head, with the intake tube
from the supply tank coming up behind his
seat and wholly out of the way.
SI
THE DEVOURING TIDE
By FOLTON CROSS
Convinced of His Own Power, Scientific Wizard Richard
Carr Takes Muriel Clegg into Outer Space, Ready to
Create New Universes Beyond the Horizons of Civilization!
W* HE invaders
l|i had come
suddenly
and caught Earth
unprepared. Mov¬
ing at the speed of
light their ap¬
proach had been
invisible. They
came in thousands
—monstrous ves¬
sels whose occupants gave no warning
and issued no ultimatum. Total annihila¬
tion of Earth’s inhabitants seemed to be
their sole objective.
The instant they crossed the sensitive
etho-electric barrier, flung in a network
from the far flung outposts of the Sys¬
tem, the Earth alarms had sounded and
men and women moved instantly to their
stations to handle disruptive screens, the
gigantic atomic force guns, the radio¬
vibration barrages. Others dispersed to
control hurtling armadas by remote tele¬
radio.
The unknowns were clearly beings of
a higher mental order than Earthlings.
They used weapons which drew on the
ether for supply. They hurled walls of
shattering vibration down upon the de¬
fenses. In places the protective screens
of the Earthlings smashed and buckled.
Beneath these gaps whole cities rocked
and split up amid a million thunders.
Tens of thousands of gallant defenders
died in the onslaught. Those who did
survive surged to other points to rein¬
force their desperately pressed com¬
rades.
Deep down in the bowels of the earth
shining armies of robots marched to the
tune of the Armament Master, robots
which carried an unceasing flow of ma¬
terials and ammunition to the battling
Earthlings on the surface. If the on¬
slaught could only be stemed there was
a chance—a slim but still a real one—
that Earth might yet survive. . . .
In a still-quiet room, buried a mile be¬
low the carnage of the surface, Lester
Carr worked silently, undisturbed.
Though fully aware of the danger
threatening the world, it was not to his
task to deal directly with it. As First
Phycist to the Governing Council he had
his especial duties to perform. Right
now he was bending over a series of
tubes and dials, in the center of which
reposed a grayish looking mass not un¬
like flesh.
S ILENTLY a woman entered. Lester
Carr did not look at her even though
he was aware of her presence.
“Catalyst Seventy-X-E,” he ordered,
regarding the substance on the testing
plate. “Quickly, please!”
It was handed t6 him. He held the
phial over the intake valve of his strange
instrument. The stuff mingled instantly
with the fleshy mass. It fumed saffron
yellow, emitted a choking discharge.
Carr closed a petcock and looked up
with a grim smile.
“It may interest you to know, Freda,
that our enemies are from a planetary
system which has Morcas-Eighteen as
its sun.”
The girl started. “But that’s a colossal
distance away. As far as our present
day telescopes can penetrate.”
“It still remains a fact,” Lester Carr
said. “We know the contents of Morcas-
Eighteen, and since the planets of a par¬
ticular sun take on the qualities of the
primary, or parent, there can be no mis¬
take. This piece of flesh from one of the
invaders contains elements which are
84
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
only applicable to Morcas-Eighteen.”
“But why should they pick on Earth
for such an assault?” the girl demanded
angrily. “Why not Mars, or Venus, or
even some of the planets nearer to their
own System? What have we done?”
"Just nothing,” Carr shrugged. “The
only explanation is that they chose
Earth because they felt our science
would not be able to master them, a fact
which they were perhaps uncertain
about in regard to planets near their
own home. Why they should travel so
far afield I can’t imagine—yet.”
There was silence for a moment. Then
with a smile Carr suddenly relaxed. The
stern scientific authority of his still
young face melted into affectionate
lines.
“In the stress of duty one would think
us strangers,” he murmured. “Forgive
my bruskness, dearest.”
“At such times as these, Les, I forget
too that we are married, certified A eater-
gory, and have a perfect son designated
by the Eugenics Council as Super-X-A.”
The girl gave a little shrug of her white-
coated shoulders. “After all, duty must
come first. But seriously, how do you
think we will make out?”
“We’ve got to survive, Freda. For
nearly two centuries we have built up an
ordered civilization of science and prog¬
ress, and the inhuman senselessness of
war—even from the void'—must not be
allowed to destroy it.” Carr clenched a
lean fist and beat it vexedly on the bench.
“What beats me is the senselessness of
this particular attack. Why did they
pick on us? The only explanation seems
to be that they were driven from their
own world. And a power that can drive
out master-scientists en masse must be
something serious indeed. That is a
solemn thought.”
He turned suddenly and switched on
the visiplates connected to the pick-up
stations on Earth’s surface. Somberly
he and the girl watched the sky thick
with the hurtling hordes from Morcas-
eighteen, hurling forth their battering
rams of scientific destruction.
“Unless I am much mistaken,” Carr
said at length, a touch of exultation in
his voice, “we’re holding our own. That
new Clark-Andrews multi-dimensional
ray is our salvation. A bit longer and we
may definitely turn the tide—”
He turned as the door opened again.
It was the Second-in-Command of the
Defense Force who entered. With him
came two heavily armed guards holding
between them with magnetic attractors
a squirming, putty-gray being whose
shape utterly defied all human stand¬
ards. He seemed to be composed of
one jellylike body, a proturberance for
a head, in which were two vast hate-
filled eyes. He moved with clumsy
slowness on blocky legs.
“Perfect speciment of the enemy here,
Carr,” the S-in-C said briefly. “Find
out what you can from him and report
back to headquarters.”
Carr nodded and motioned the guards
aside. In thirty minutes he had the
brain-frequency amplifier at work on the
creature and exchange of thought waves
began.
“Do you come from a planet which has
what we call Morcas-Eighteen for a
sun?” Carr demanded, indicating the
spot on a cosmic map.
T HE jellyhead gave grudging ac¬
knowledgment.
“Then why have you attacked us?
What are you seeking? Why such a
wholesale flight into the void?”
“Why not?” vibrated the sullen in¬
quiry. “It was done before us. Ages
ago, when the Black Infinity threatened
to engulf Miras, our nearest neighbor,
the inhabitants of that planet also fled
into space seeking safety. Wisely, they
avoided our planet knowing that within
a few thousand years it too would be en¬
gulfed. They came to Earth, vanquished
the inhabitants, lived for awhile in com¬
fort— Then, with their scientific re¬
sources built up again after the conquest,
they moved on once more. Always travel¬
ing, always trying to escape the inevit¬
able maw of the Black Infinity.”
Carr stood puzzling for a moment.
“This Miras you speak of. How far
away was it from you?”
“Possibly as far as Sirius is from you
THE DEVOURING TIDE
85
—that is on the side away from Earth.”
“Not far from the rim of the universe,
then?”
“Just so. But that rim overtook and
threatened to destroy Miras. Hence the
exodus. Nor was there any warning be¬
cause the Black Infinity moves faster
than light and hence gives no warning of
its approach. Finally it will engulf all
planets, even this one.”
Carr asked thoughtfully. “Just how
long is it, in Earthly time, since the
Miras scientists vanquished the Earth?”
“It would be about the middle of your
Mesozoic Era.”
Carr meditated over another question
as the radiophone to the surface buzzed
for attention. He listened, gave a grim
smile, then switched off.
“It may interest you to know, my
friend, that your invasion has failed,”
he announced. “The news has just come
through.”
All the assurance and power seemed
to evaporate from the man of far-away.
“For me,” came his thoughts, “there
is nothing left!”
And with sudden, stupefying force
his center of consciousness built up to a
brief anguishing concentration. Liter¬
ally he destroyed his fleshly cage with
the force of his own thoughts!
Carr and his wife stood astounded by
the occurrence for a moment. Then Carr
sighed gloomily.
“A pity he had to do that. There was
so much more I wanted to ask.”
“What does it matter now?” Freda
cried, her eyes dancing. “We’ve won.
We’ve smashed the invasion. Don’t you
see what it means?”
“Yes,” Carr said slowly, with un¬
wonted grimness. “I think I do.” He
became suddenly alert. “We’d better
hurry to headquarters and get the news
first hand.”
The return of peace and the chance to
rebuild the damage done occupied the
attention of practically every scientist
—except Lester Carr. In hours of duty
he had, of course, to do the work as¬
signed him by his superiors. But for
him the real work began when the city
synchro-buzzers announced the time for
recreation.
In his own modest laboratory, adjoin¬
ing his city apartment, he spent a great
deal of time weighing up the things he
had heard and learned from the invader
with whom he had communicated.
“There’s no doubt,” he said one night
to Freda, who had followed his investi¬
gations with never-flagging interest,
“that something real and deadly is going
on, way out in the Universe—something
defying our telescopes because it moves
faster than light can travel. It is some¬
thing so remote that it would take whole
generations of spacemen ever to reach
it and return with a report. Those be¬
ings of Morcas-Eighteen were not flesh
and blood. Their power to annihilate by
thought proved that. Possibly they were
a form of crystalized thought, hence
able to move at a speed far in excess of
light. That’s the only explanation for
them attacking us so suddenly and with¬
out warning.”
F REDA watched him for a moment.
“But what does it matter?” she in¬
sisted. “The danger is over and done
with.”
“I don’t think it is,” Carr interrupted
grimly. “In these past months I’ve spent
a lot of time studying the newly found
records of Atlantis and Mu, produced
by the Lang Expedition of Twenty
Thirty-five. You will remember that
they added to earlier findings of the
Twentieth Century, wherein—even that
long ago—it was postulated that some
cataclysm or other wiped out Atlantis
and other early civilizations. The cata¬
clysm was not one of Nature, however,
but an invasion like the one we’ve just
defeated.”
“Are you sure of that?” inquired
Freda.
“There are countless evidences,” Carr
went on restlessly. “There are samples
out of the sands and ruins themselves to
prove that inhabitants of another world
had been present. Most of the samples,
according to my tests, coincide with the
elements one would except to find from
invaders inhabiting such a world as
Miras must have been. And the time co-
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
incides. Our captured friend said Earth
was conquered in the mid-Mesozoic Era,
which was approximately the time of the
Atlantis tragedy. Obviously Atlantis
was submerged by attack from space and
the invaders became masters over the re¬
mainder. Then the invaders moved on,
farther and farther away from—the
Black Infinity.”
Carr’s words trailed off as he lost him¬
self in speculation.
“This Black Infinity seems to suggest
a hole in space—some overwhelming
force beyond science to master,” he re¬
sumed. “Miras was overtaken first.
More recently a planet, infinitely nearer
to Earth, was abandoned for the same
reason. It requires no imagination to
see that this unknown horror will finally
reach here, too.”
“But what is the Black Infinity?”
Freda demanded.
“We don’t know for certain. But we
can assume that it is vastly destructive,
since whole populations flee from it.
There may be other invasions yet, as suc¬
cessively nearer systems to Earth are
overwhelmed.”
Carr straightened up suddenly.
“We’re facing danger from two sources,
Freda. Future invasions by races using
Earth as a stopping place—and the men¬
ace of the Black Infinity itself. We
shall have to prepare against the one and
master the other. I must try and get a
scientists’ convention arranged.”
“Dearest, wait a moment,” Freda
caught his arm. He turned in surprise
and her voice was serious. “How long
do you think it will be before this Black
Infinity reaches us?”
“How can I say when I don’t know
what it is? As a rough guess, estimating
the distances between Miras and the
Morcas-Eighteen System, I’d say per¬
haps two hundred years. But this un¬
known thing may—and probably will—
increase its speed. Why?”
“Just that I’m wondering what you
can do about it. What can any of us do
about it? We’ve not solved eternal life.
As generation follows generation—espe¬
cially if no more invasions come—the
peril of the Black Infinity will no longer
seem to be a real menace as it does to
you right now. We know of it, but it is
to posterity that we must hand down the
knowledge. And unfortunately peril
loses its sharpness with time.”
Carr frowned. “There has got to be
a way to hand it on,” he muttered. He
reflected, pacing agitatedly up and down.
“And I’ll find the way somehow,” he
said finally. “Now I must go.”
The governing council, however, re¬
fused Lester Carr his application for a
convention. He was listened to, purely
out of courtesy, and his whole earnest
speech was recorded—but that was all.
Politely but firmly the council made
clear to him that he was chasing rain¬
bows.
At first he was bitter, disconsolate.
Then new ideas took hold of him. For
months he worked in secret. Then, one
day, he returned home with his son from
the State-creche.
C ARRYING him in his arms Carr mo¬
tioned his wife to follow him into
his laboratory. For the first time she
saw the machine on which he had spent
so much time and energy.
“This,” he said eagerly, settling the
child down, “is a special improvement
on the Telepath we have at the labora¬
tory—the one with which I communi¬
cated with that invader. You see, Freda,
study has shown me that it is actually
the particular qualities of a certain brain
which produces genius, the ability of
the brain that is to adapt itself uniquely
to the incessent thoughts flowing in from
space.”
“Space!” Freda ejaculated, astonished.
Carr nodded. “Jeans of long ago re¬
ferred to a mathematical God. He also
referred to space itself being a mathe¬
matical abstraction. Later scientists in
our own time have averred that space, if
not pure thought itself, is certainly close
to it. Therefore our brains simply be¬
come the transformers by which these
inflowing thought waves are trans¬
formed into activities of greater or lesser
intellectual power, according to the
brain which receives them.”
Freda nodded slowly, pondering.
THE DEVOURING TIDE
87
“Those brains better suited than
others become geniuses for that reason,”
Carr finished. “Such a brain has Richard
here. Our Richard!” he went on
proudly, rubbing the boy’s curly hair.
“By ordinary standards alone—accord¬
ing to his State grade-card—he would
grow up into an extremely clever man.
But I intend to make him a superman—
one who will be able to carry the vast
scientific responsibility which will one
day be his!”
Freda’s voice revealed anxiety for the
first time.
“Les, just what are you going to do?”
“Use the device you see here. This
machine of mine will stimulate Richard’s
brain with extra energy every time he
is allowed to be with us at vacation
period. Thus, even as a battery is sharp
when freshly charged, so will his brain
assimilate State lessons with consum¬
mate ease, as well as absorbing the new,
untold thoughts from the void itself. He
will realize where he fits in the great pat¬
tern of mortal evolution. I shall teach
him what I wish him to know during the
vacation periods, and I believe he will
understand and retain all that I shall
impress on him, thinking about those
things until next vacation time comes
round.”
Carr stopped talking and placed the
leather helmet of the device on the
child’s head, then stood back to survey
it critically. Freda bit her lip anxiously,
for the first time wavering in her trust
of her husband’s scientific skill. A thou¬
sand foolish yet forgivable thoughts
welled in her mother’s soul. They
reached an agony of apprehension when
Carr closed a switch dispassionately and
listened attentively to the humming of
the small engines embodied in the ma¬
chine.
To Freda’s intense relief Richard went
on playing unconcernedly with the tool
he had picked up. Carr watched him
hawkishly, glanced at a gage, then at
last switched off.
“That’ll do for this time,” he com¬
mented, to Freda’s satisfaction. “Now
let’s get him out of here and start in to
teach him a few simple fact*. This for
us is our supreme experiment—indeed
our sacrifice, and for it generations as
yet unborn may have cause to be de¬
voutly thankful. Come on.”
Weeks passed into months—and
months into years, but Lester Carr never
once let up in his extraordinary experi¬
ment. By carefully graduated doses,
timed to match the boy’s age, he instilled
into the young, razor-keen brain the
whole story of the invasion from Mor-
cas-Eighteen, together with the threat
of the Black Infinity. Richard Carr ab¬
sorbed it all silently, then discussed it.
At the age of ten he had the wits of a
fully-grown, clever man.
A T TWENTY Richard Carr was cer¬
tificated as Double Grade-A, a de¬
gree of brilliance usually assigned only
to those who were acknowledge masters
of one or many sciences. At twenty-
five he reached the sacrosanct region of
Chairman to the Supreme Scientific
Council. It seemed inevitable that he
would finally become the elected ruler
of the new generation.
Lester Carr had every reason to feel
proud of his experiment, and indeed
Freda too. They felt content now to
stay in the background and watch full
fruition—but this was denied them. A
fault on the Tenth Traffic Parallel
hurled the pair of them to death one
summer evening. When he heard the
news Richard Carr realized that he was
alone in the world, the sole custodian of
his father’s grim warning of disaster to
come.
To the surprise of everybody when it
came to the Presidential nominations
Richard Carr refused to stand. He
pleaded important work in research and
sought retirement to study out the prob¬
lem wished on him by his far-seeing but
much less brilliant father. Money he
had aplenty from his scientific inven¬
tions.
Muriel Clegg, his one assistant,
though a Grade-A student in astrophy¬
sics and mathematics, found Richard
Carr an utterly complicated and rather
arid being. He was emotionless, coldly
precise, with a wizardry over science and
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
its mysteries that was somehow godlike.
In appearance he was handsome, and to
hear him talk was to be aware of a calm,
self-centered ego which was little short
of exasperating. He treated the pretty
brunette Muriel as a well precisioned
machine, utterly blind to the admiration
—slowly deepening to affection—which
she had for him.
In his laboratory one evening he
seemed to forget that the girl was even
present and talked half to himself.
“There is only one explanation for
the Black Infinity. The Universe, as we
know it, began from the explosion of a
gigantic primal atom, its matter rushing
outwards from the central core to form
the expanding universe. We, of the
Universe, and all other matter in it, are
the parts of the initial explosion. But
outside of the Universe—and inside it,
the central core from which the primal
atom exploded—there is nothing. A
non-space time . . .”
Carr stopped, meditating, and then
went on. “The Universe is expanding—
that is already acknowledged. But ma¬
thematics postulate that there must come
a time when the inner explosion will
overtake the outward expansion. That
means that the inner core of non-space
time will overtake the exploded matter
at colossal speed. Faster than light,
therefore faster than matter itself can
move. Matter itself is being engulfed
by non-space-time! And this non-space¬
time expansion, moving with resistless,
awful speed will eat through all matter
until it joins the equal state of non¬
space-time existing outside the universe.
“Nothing,” Carr finished hopelessly,
“can stop it. Now we know why those
scientists fled. They could no more de¬
feat the laws of celestial mechanics than
I can. Soon the others will flee the de¬
vouring tide. Betelgeuse, Sirius, Alpha
Centauri. They will use Earth as a tem¬
porary haven no doubt, and vanquish us
if they can. Then again they will flee as
Earth itself comes into the danger line.
The whole Universe must ultimately be
swallowed up. It will be forced back into
the state of non-space-time that existed
before matter was.”
Muriel Clegg stared at him, the im¬
mensity of his conception slowly filter¬
ing into her mind. At length his burn¬
ing eyes sought her own.
“How did it all begin?” he whispered.
“Whence came this primal atom that
now threatens us with destruction be¬
cause its power is less swift than the
non-space-time which bore it? If it be¬
gan once, it can, perhaps, begin again.”
H E broke off, and with characteristic
suddenness said,
“That will be all for now,” he said.
“I must see the Defense Council imme¬
diately.”
Carr had little difficulty in convincing
the Defense Council of coming invasion
once he had outlined his theory. And
sure enough it came, two months later.
As on that other distant occasion the
alarm shield gave the initial warning of
imminent danger. Richard Carr an¬
swered it by issuing vital instructions.
Weapons, terrible indeed, devised by his
own brilliant mind, came into being.
Then, satisfied that the invaders would
get all they had asked for, he retreated
to his laboratory, and took Muriel Clegg
with him. Then he threw a switch which
entirely inclosed the place in a shell of
protective energy.
Even so the girl was somewhat fearful.
“What happens,” she asked, as Carr
stood brooding over a sheet of equations,
“if they succeed in breaking through the
barrier weapons?”
“They won’t. They’re not dealing with
material things, but with transfigura¬
tions.” Carr switched on the external
screens and he and the girl stood watch¬
ing fixedly as, without any sign of fire
or blasting, the invading machines just
vanished into thin air while trying to
attack. It was an uncanny sight, as
though they had been sidetracked into
another dimension.
“The basic energy quanta of those
ships,” Carr said, “is rendered void be¬
cause the mathematical postulations
making them up are being canceled out.
My weapons are based on the probability
waves of the electron, incorporating nine
dimensions.”
THE DEVOURING TIDE
89
He switched off again, pondered, and
then saw the girl’s eyes were upon him.
She asked a coldly logical question.
“If you’ve invented such a mighty bar¬
rier why surround this place with a
force shield?”
“Because I’m not fool enough to ex¬
pect an absolute exactitude in my math¬
ematical barrier. I had to devise it hur¬
riedly. It may not be an exact composite.
The force shield here is to keep away all
intruders. I’ve vital work to do.”
He swung to the bench, but at the
identical moment the radio signaled
sharply. He switched on. To his sur¬
prise Defense Controller Menrose’s face
appeared on the teleplate, and it was wor¬
ried.
“Carr, they’re getting through.”
Carr gave an incredulous gasp. “It’s
impossible.”
“Fact remains that they are and we’ve
got to drop back on our normal defense
weapons. God knows how we’re going to
hold out. You’d better figure out what’s
wrong, if it isn’t too late.”
Carr switched off, and stared perplex¬
edly before him for a moment. Then he
gave a start at a thunderous roar from
outside. A titanic invading machine
swept low over the city, dropped a com¬
plete salvo of incredibly destructive
bombs.
Through the window Carr and the girl
watched the Fifth and Sixth Traffic
Parallels blow out in cascades of tum¬
bling metal. The laboratory window
shook violently in its frame.
“It means,” Carr breathed, clenching
his fist, “that these creatures are cleverer
than I.” He stared at the horde of ma¬
chines pouring through the gap in the
invisible screen. “They have worked
out a system of counter-mathematics to
destroy the barrier. That means—”
“We face destruction because of their
immense intellect?” the girl asked bit¬
terly. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” Carr’s lips tightened.
"But this Earth is ours, and knowledge
was given to me to try and save it.
Somehow I am going to— At least save
those worth saving. Quickly, come
with me.”
||E PRESSED a button and a slide
opened in the metal floor. Cold
light gushed up from below. The girl
followed Carr along a flight of steps to
an elevator. Thence they traveled down
into the bowels of the earth itself for
nearly a mile. Finally they came out
into an underground wilderness of sci¬
ence.
The girl had never been here be¬
fore. She gazed round on glittering
crystallike engines, mighty coils, banks
of tubes, flat platforms, vacuum globes
— She swung, speechless with amaze¬
ment, as Carr closed the insulated slide
leading to the surface elevator.
“We’re safe enough here,” he said.
“The force shield protects the upper
laboratory, and therefore this place
down here. This laboratory is essential.
Its machinery is valuable.”
He did not attempt to explain it there
and then, however. Instead he looked at
the girl with a meditative gaze.
“Muriel,” he said, “in a short time
the invaders will beat us. Blood and
toil will be offered by our people, yes—
but final destruction is inevitable except
for the few. And for them only a little
while until the Black Infinity comes. I
begin to see that I can never save Earth.
But at least I can hope to create a better
world on which the survivors can start
again.”
The girl’s expression showed that she
did not understand. He went on in a
dead level voice.
“Once I realized what had gone wrong
out there in space—that it was the en¬
croachment of non-space-time, I set to
work to determine what created the Uni¬
verse in the first place. I was led to the
absolute conclusion reached by Jeans
long ago—namely, it was willed into
being, perhaps by a super-scientist, or
just as possibly by quite an ordinary
being. In a sea of non-space-time
thought would produce, tangible vibra¬
tions from which matter itself, would be
born. A primal atom would be formed.
You understand that?”
“I—I think so,” the girl hesitated.
“But where does it get us? How does
it stop the outflowing of—”
90
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
“It doesn’t. Nothing can. The
Universe we know is doomed to ex¬
tinction. When the inner core of non¬
space-time reaches the outer waste of
non-space-time matter will cease to
exist. But, if a Universe was created
by thought back in the unimaginable
past, so it can be again. By me!”
The girl was silent at that. She saw
the light of intense ego burning in
Carr’s eyes. Already he imagined him¬
self a god.
“I have this apparatus to finish,” he
concluded. “I shall complete it in time
because I must. You cannot help me in
its construction but you can attend to
the lesser details—food, comforts, every
report of the battle above our heads. I
have to concentrate.”
When the certainty of defeat was
finally realized a call for help reached
the laboring, sleepless, superhumanly
active scientist. He was in the midst
of the final assembly of his queer and
complicated machinery when Muriel
Clegg reported a weak signal from
somewhere about fifty miles away, un¬
derground. She made the announce¬
ment rather uneasily, fearful of disturb¬
ing Carr’s thoughts.
To her relief he nodded and hurried
over to make full contact. Transmis¬
sion was bad but just audible. The visi-
plate was out of action completely.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said curtly,
after listening to the doleful recounting
of events on the surface. “We’re beaten
—just as I expected we would be. Any¬
time now the victors will drive down¬
ward after us. That doesn’t concern me.
What does concern me is that we can
leave a doomed world to them and, in¬
stead, start to make a universe of our
own.”
A VOICE squawked hysterical pro¬
tests, and he paused, his face cloud¬
ing as he listened.
“What kind of fools are you? I’m of¬
fering you the chance to be as gods. I am
giving you the opportunity to create
worlds at will—and you say such ideas
usurp creation, destroy the power of the
All Being who is acknowledged artisan
of the whole universe.” Carr’s mouth har¬
dened. “There isn’t such a being. It is
a fallacy handed down through milennia.
Heredity? Any man, if he be a scientific
genius, can become a god. I can become
a god!”
The transmitted reply became a little
clearer.
“Your words are reaching us distinctly
now, Carr. We are separated from you
by fifty miles of solid rock. We have no
tools to break our way out even if we
wished. You cannot reach us, or we
you—”
“I can reach you,” Carr interrupted.
“If I want to.”
“If you want to!” echoed the voice.
“You’ve got to! You must devise new
weapons for us and recast your mathe¬
matical barrier. The Earth is ours and
we still want to defend it.”
“Fools, the lot of you,” Carr retorted
contemptuously. “No power can save
Earth now. The outflowing core of non¬
space-time will in any event soon anni¬
hilate it. That is what I am fighting.
Oh, why are you so blind? Don’t you
see what I offer you? The chance to
create another universe out of non-space¬
time. I know it can be done. If you
are willing to come in on this last ad¬
venture—take over a world of your own
creating within this as yet unborn uni¬
verse—just say the word. I will find a
way for you to get here to my ma¬
chinery.”
There was a long silence, presumably
while the views of the people were
sought. Then the voice resumed.
“No, Carr, you speak of science beyond
human reach. There are certain limits
beyond which a man’s domination may
not go.”
Furiously Carr snapped off the switch
and stalked back to his apparatus.
“Imbeciles,” he breathed hotly, finger¬
ing his massive machine. “Clods! I
give them omniscience, and they prefer
to fight like moles against impossible
odds. Was it for this that my father
made me into a genius? That I should
find a way out and have none with the
wit to follow me?”
“Perhaps,” Muriel Clegg said slowly,
THE DEVOURING TIDE
91
“your father did not realize that you
would reach so far.”
He relaxed slowly, staring at her.
Savagely he caught her arm.
“Do you mean by that that you mis¬
trust me, too?”
“No, I don’t mistrust you,” she an¬
swered frankly. “I know you to be the
greatest scientist of this day and age. But
I can still remember also that you are
flesh and blood like the rest of us and
not the omnipotent deity you would like
to think yourself. Man cannot create
universes, populate them, feed them, con¬
trol them.”
“Equations don’t lie, woman,” he
screeched.
“Perhaps not, but if you execute the
sum total of those equations you’ll have
a price to pay.” The girl’s voice was
quiet. She faced his obvious fury with¬
out flinching. “Universes are the work
of God, whom all obey and few under¬
stand. You propose to defy God, and
that is something I don’t dare contem¬
plate.”
Carr straightened up and released her
arm abruptly.
“You’re as earthbound as the rest of
them. You have no sense of real science.
I am doing what I know to be right. I
am perpetuating the glorious cause of
Earthly science elsewhere, starting a
universe afresh.”
“For what?” Muriel asked colorlessly.
“A material universe will only evolve and
then it will die, as this one is doing. It
will leave everything unexplained, as
this one has done. We will be blotted
out before we even get a chance to un¬
derstand it.”
T HE young scientist nodded in agree¬
ment.
“That is the point,” he cried, trying to
infuse her with something of his own
dynamic fire. “If however— I—or we—
create a new universe we shall start from
that point and work up. So we lay the
foundation for a new and mightier up¬
ward climb.”
‘I cannot believe it,” she said seriously.
“What I have learned of physics tells me
that, so long as you are material, so long
as matter is in existence, you are bound
to operate along false laws. You cannot
start a Universe where another one left
off. Cosmic cyclism insists that the
chain is birth, maturity, death, and noth¬
ing—not even you—can ever alter it.”
“At least I shall try.” Carr breathed.
“Don’t you see?”
She said nothing and so he turned
back to his machinery. For perhaps an¬
other two hours he labored, unmindful of
the girl. Then at a sudden series of
vast concussions he looked up sharply.
“The invaders,” Muriel said quietly.
“The last screen just went blank as they
smashed surface contact. I saw them
attacking the outer valves. Before long
they’ll be down here.”
Carr hurried over to her, caught her
shoulders.
“Muriel, I beg of you, come with me.
I know I’m right. You have been so
close to me through everything. You
are the only one I feel I can trust. I
have come nearer to loving you than any¬
body else I have ever known. I’ll give
you— What will I not give you, if you’ll
come . . .”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I
feel that when everything is added up
I’ll be higher up the ladder to salvation
than you.”
“You blind, ignorant little fool!” he
exploded. “Oh, why is it my lot to be
cursed with numbskulls for associates?
You choose death, like those other pur¬
blind idiots. Within an hour the in¬
vaders will be down here to destroy you
—and I offer you eternal life. In any
case doom is inevitable while you stay
on Earth.”
For a second or two he saw the shadow
of a doubt in her eyes.
“I won’t let you sacrifice yourself,” he
cried. “I need you—even if only for the
possibility of mating and starting a new
race on a world as yet unborn. Science
demands that you come.”
She gave a little gasp of alarm as his
hold on her shoulders tightened sudden¬
ly. Without giving her the chance to
reply he whirled her to the footplate of
his giant machine. She clung to him
helplessly, speechless. He gave that
92
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
grim smile—that smile of rocklike as¬
surance—and reached out to the control¬
ling switches.
Even as he did so the noise in the out¬
let valves to the surface increased into
terrific clangor. Then it was gone!
Blank nothingness fell upon Carr and
the girl, a blankness born of the sudden
blasting and total construction of all
physical attributes. He no longer held
the girl. Instead neither of them had
bodies at all. Nothing was present ex¬
cept a sense of headlong motion as the
faster-than-light postulations of his
strange mathematical machine hurled
them headlong through the infinite.
Within seconds, as it seemed to him,
he was through the narrow limits of the
woefully contracted Universe—hurtled
out beyond into the formless space-time
minus, where no matter was, where there
was naught but the primal dark.
Since thought was no longer pinned by
material incumbrances Carr realized that
he was free.
He thought of Muriel Clegg and the
fierce compulsion behind his wordless
call brought her to him.
“Free thoughts in a free space,” his
thoughts cried. “Nothing to hold us. To
us falls the vast honor of creating a
Universe. Think! Concentrate! Inter¬
locking thought vibrations must bring
matter into being. We will create the
primal atom.”
C ONVINCED of his titanic authori¬
ty and power, he concentrated with
all the scientific knowledge at his com¬
mand. He felt too the weaker impact of
the girl’s mind. Before them something
formed out of the grayness, fashioned by
thought itself impinging on non-space¬
time.
It grew, expanded outward, became
the trembling primal atom of a new Uni¬
verse. It exploded with bewildering im¬
pact, creating of itself mighty suns and
nebulae . . .
The thought-entity which had been
Richard Carr watched intently with
omnipotent eyes—than as the matter
formed into the gradual birth of an ex¬
panding Universe a strange fear tugged
his mind. Memory was slipping! He
was commencing to forget!
“Muriel!” he concentrated desperately.
And he wondered why he felt comforted
to find that she was near. “Muriel, some¬
thing is wrong. We have created a Uni¬
verse. When planets have cooled—no
matter how long it may be—we could
have gone to one of them, created a race
of mighty scientists. But I am forget¬
ting. Why? Why? What is wrong with
my reasoning? Muriel, answer me!”
His intelligence was slipping so fast
he could hardly grasp her reply.
“We have created the Beginning—not
a new Beginning, as you had expected.
Your thoughts and mine formed this
Universe—and that was only possible in
non-space-time. But now normal space
time has again been created, all its laws
are operative, too. And you and I are
compelled to obey them. It is the eternal
law of physics, Richard. All the up¬
ward climb you and I have made—all the
climb through our ancestors from the
primal amoeba counts for nothing.
Death would have been so much easier.
We would still have stood a chance. Here
we have none, for we have gone back
to the core of the Beginning. Here we
shall remain, all knowledge stripped
from us, all to be relearned as we slowly
climb again.”
But her words had lost meaning for
Richard Carr. Ego, masterful science,
the longing to be a god, the ability to
create and master a Universe—they had
been grand dreams, all gone. Muriel had
gone too, whirled back into a remote
primal ity.
Now he had no other awareness be¬
yond that of dull waiting. Waiting for
the dawn of life when he could again
begin to dumb!
Like an echo from a lost infinity he
seemed to remember something, a text
had it not been?
No Other Gods Before Me!
But the rest was blotted out in the un¬
known.
THE ETERNAL NOW, Novelet by MURRAY LEINSTER, Coming Next Issue!
GOD OF LIGHT
By LLOYD ARTHUR ESHBACH
The Weird Menace of an Unearthly Visitor Plagues Jim
Murray and Valaire Buchanan in the Brazilian Jungle!
I OWERING his machete, big Jim
Murray stared through narrowed
■ eyelids into the thicket before
him. A delicate violet mist pervaded the
jungle, transforming the hazy, gray-green
shadow world into something alien and
unearthly. He turned his gaze upward—
and through a momentary rift in the leafy
roof of the jungle he caught a glimpse of
the Sky. It was a clear violet.
Murray grinned wryly. It was not
enough that he had had to forsake the
comparative coolness of the Recreio
Popular back in Remate de Males to hack
his way through this Brazilian jungle.
Now he had to run into this. And all be¬
cause of a blonde!
Narrowly he glanced toward the fig¬
ure at his elbow, and his eyes glinted
with involuntary approval. She was not
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
94
as immaculate as she had been when they
left the bank of the Javary River two
hours before, but she was still easy on
the eyes. He noted with perverse satis¬
faction that her white sport shirt and
olive drab breeches were beginning to
show the effects of the jungle journey.
Little wonder, for despite the stifling
heat, her machete rose and fell with a
rhythmic regularity.
As though aware of his scrutiny, Val-
aire Buchanan turned abruptly, her hazel
eyes meeting his gray ones with discon¬
certing steadiness.
“Looks as though the natives knew
what they were talking about,” Murray
said, “when they told us this country
was taboo.” He gestured toward the
violet-cloaked jungle before them. “This
whole set-up’s crazy. First the sky turns
purple—then radio transmission and re¬
ception fails in half of Brazil—and now
even the air in the jungle is turning vio¬
let !”
Valaire Buchanan barely glanced in the
direction he indicated and then spoke
in quiet tones.
“I knew we’d find this,” she said. “And
it’s only the beginning. Yesterday I flew
over the ‘Diamond Queen.’ I’ve done it
before, just to see Dad’s mine from the
air—and knowing that he was going to
visit the property today to check on the
reason for the lack of diamond shipments
and reports during the last two weeks, I
decided to look things over.” She inhaled
deeply, and a look of fear flashed into her
eyes. Momentarily fright broke through
her self-control.
“There is no ‘Diamond Queen’!” she
exclaimed.
S HE paused. Anxiety and concern
settled upon her lovely face. Mur¬
ray waited without interruption. Her
next words came suddenly in a rush.
“I didn’t see much,” she said. “But
where the mine had been I saw a tremen¬
dous circular pit, and out of the pit rose
clouds of purple mist—mist that seemed
to stain the sky above it. I caught a
glimpse of some gigantic glowing thing
at the bottom of the pit as I circled over
it. Then something—perhaps the mist—
seemed—” she groped for words—
“seemed to wrap itself around my brain
—luring me—drawing me. It was hor¬
rible ! I had to fight to keep from send¬
ing the plane into a dive down into that
pit!”
“If the impulse was so strong,” asked
Murray, “how did you manage to over¬
come it?”
“I can’t explain it,” said the girl.
“Somehow I tore free of the awful temp¬
tation and flew back to the field at Rio.
I didn’t know what to do. To fly to
Remate de Males was impossible, for
there’s no landing field nearby. I tried
’phoning to Dad and couldn’t get a call
through. Radio communication was dead,
so my best hope was to try and reach
him myself. I missed him by hours. . . .
But—he must be stopped!”
Murray nodded grimly.
“That’s where I fit into the picture,”
he said. “This short-cut through the bush
should do the trick. Lucky I was waiting
around to see your father. Too bad you
couldn’t hire a few brown boys, though,
instead of a freelance mining engineer
hunting a job. You’d be moving faster
now. Personally I’m glad the natives
turned out to be so superstitious. This
promises to be mighty interesting.”
He turned and his powerful arms
swung his machete into the thorny bush¬
es before him.
“What are we waiting for?” he asked
her.
Despite the increased vigor of his at¬
tack, their progress seemed maddeningly
slow to Jim Murray. The jungle seemed
to have a will of its own, bending every
effort toward holding them back. Im¬
mense, thick-rooted trees rose everywhere
to support the shadowed, leafy ceiling.
Lianas spiraled around them like crazy,
broken springs out of some huge, mad
clock. Giant vines, writhing like snakes
from the lower branches of the trees,
combined with the undergrowth to form
an almost inpenetrable barrier. And it
was hot—terribly hot. A steaming, mias¬
matic heat that had the sodden effect
of a Turkish bath, that made Murray’s
whipcord breeches and leather puttees
almost unbearable. A reeking, buzzing,
GOD OF LIGHT
95
droning, vegetable hell, tinted an in¬
credible violet, suggesting the land¬
scape of another world!
They paused after a time to rest and
to refresh themselves with water from
their canteens. In the comparative quiet,
Murray thought he heard the distant
rumble of thunder. He listened curiously,
doubt in his mind. It did not exactly
sound like thunder; the rumble was
somehow metallic, and it seemed nearby,
for it was interrupted now and again by
a faint sucking sound, as though a huge
boot were being pulled out of a mud-
bank. It faded, then vanished.
“Odd,” Murray said. Then he turned
again to the interminable task of slashing
a path through the undergrowth.
Gradually the jungle thinned, grew
swampy, and the blazing heat of the sun
drove down through gaps in the foliage
in concentrated beams. Drove down out
of a sky of brilliant violet. Before them,
through the brush, they saw a stretch
of open plain, thick with grass hum¬
mocks and frequent scum-covered pools.
Here and there a lone tree raised its head,
and on the far edge of the open ground
loomed the green border of the jungle.
Murray stared into the dancing waves
of heat that rose from the malodorous
surface of the savanna, his eyes search¬
ing for the best path to follow. A frown
appeared on his face. Something strange
out there. It looked as though a geo¬
metrically perfect design had been
punched into the mud. It was no more
than twenty feet away. Curiously he
moved toward it, the girl at his side.
They paused at the edge of the strange
depression, and Jim Murray felt the hair
rising on the crisping skin of his neck.
The thing before them looked like a foot¬
print—but that was ridiculous! What
could make a footprint six feet broad!
It was fully that wide and shaped like
an open umbrella—an umbrella with six
ribs. It was perfectly smooth, except
where the ribs had pressed deeper into
the muck. And the surface of the print
was a good two feet below the level of
the plain!
Valaire Buchanan spoke. Her voice
was hushed and her face was drained of
color. “It is the track of the thing that
destroyed the mine,” she gasped.
Murray laughed shortly—and was
startled by the unnatural sound of his
own voice. He had thought of the same
thing—but by human standards it would
take a monster forty feet tall to make a
print of that size. And there was only
one print. . . . Unless. . . .
H E SCANNED the ground around
him, and suddenly he saw, about
twenty feet to one side, a second um¬
brella-shaped depression. And beyond
that, another, all in perfect alignment!
Murray was an experienced big game
hunter. He looked down at the print at
his feet, and his eyes widened. The track
had been pressed into the moist soil of the
savanna—and only now was the water
beginning to seep into the deeper parts
of the print!
Minutes before, whatever had made
that mark had passed that way. Grimly
Murray wondered if it could have passed
with the rumble of rolling thunder broken
by sucking sounds of whatever had made
these huge depressions.
He turned to Valaire Buchanan.
“This gets more interesting all the
time,” he said. “It strikes me speed is
what we need right now. Let’s continue
to investigate.”
Briskly he stalked across the swampy
plain, avoiding treacherous quagmires,
and generally following the course of the
great tracks leading toward the jungle.
The girl followed a foot or two behind
him. At the edge of the wilderness they
found another of the strange prints, with
bushes and saplings pressed into the
earth, like flowers in a book. For a silent
moment man and girl stood gazing at the
mark, striving to visualize the gigantic
thing that had made it. Then with
Valaire at his side they resumed their
laborious progress through the jungle.
Relentlessly Murray drove himself,
thought of everything thrust from his
mind but their goal and the strange
things he had seen. The violet sky—
footprints that were too immense to be
footprints—yet could not possibly be any¬
thing else. . . . The strange silence of all
96
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
radios—Val’s glimpse of a great pit where
a diamond mine had been. . . . Whatever
the cause of all this, it was big.
They reached another of the umbrella
shaped depressions and paused to rest for
a moment on a level spot. Both man and
girl were bathed in perspiration, and Mur¬
ray saw with sudden contrition that the
girl was close to collapse.
“Our trip has been too tough on you.
Miss Buchanan,” he protested, “From
now on you’d better take things easy.
After all it isn’t a woman’s job. Perhaps
I shouldn’t have let you—”
He broke off abruptly as the crack of
a rifle shot slashed through the keening
hum of jungle noises. A pause—then
another. They came from their left, in
the direction of the river.
Both waited, nerves straining. Then
faintly Murray thought he heard, min¬
gled with the jungle noises, a snapping
and crunching like the sound of a man
walking through dry faggots, but on a
greatly magnified scale. With it came
the low rumble of thunder. It ended in
moments, absorbed by the multitude of
sounds.
A SMALL, strong hand gripped Mur¬
ray’s arm. He turned and met the
stare of two hazel eyes. Valaire Buch¬
anan’s face had grown pallid with fear.
“The thing must have caught up with
the boat,” she whispered. “My father is
in danger. Oh, please! Can’t we do
something?”
“Steady—steady!” Murray held his
voice at normal pitch though his throat
felt dry as flannel. “Keep your nerve.
Hysteria won’t help. Remember we really
haven’t seen anything yet except tracks,
if that’s what they really are.” He paused,
staring off through the jungle. “We’ll
do all we can to help your father of course.
But it’s more likely he doesn’t need us.
Probably we’ll discover he has everything
under control. The best way is to go
and find out.” With his last remark, he
turned and commenced a savage attack
upon the jungle growth with his blade.
After what seemed an eternity in a
leafy purgatory where he was doomed
forever to swing an intolerable weight.
Jim Murray heard the ripple of running
water. And after another eternity, when
it seemed that human muscles could en¬
dure no more, they reached the Javary
River. And a dozen yards upstream lay
John Buchanan’s motor launch.
A strained, anxious cry burst from
Valaire Buchanan.
“It’s my father’s boat,” she said. “Dad!
Are you all right?”
Ominously, only the ceaseless drone of
the jungle answered her—and abruptly
the girl sank in white-faced exhaustion
to the bole of a giant fallen tree whose
branches thrust into the water. Eyes
filling with tears, she looked up at Mur¬
ray in mute appeal. Words failed him as,
sweat-drenched and panting, he turned
hastily to survey the launch. What was
a guy supposed to say under such cir¬
cumstances? Unscrewing the cap of Val-
aire’s canteen, he held it to her lips;
took a quick, lukewarm drink from his
own flask.
“Stay here and rest,” he told her. “I’m
going to look over the boat and find out
what we must do.”
By clinging close to the water’s edge
and utilizing every bit of open space,
Murray made his way to the tree to which
the boat was moored. About to leap to
the deck, he glimpsed a flash of crimson
out of the corner of his eye—and he stif¬
fened with horror. Almost at his feet was
another of the great tracks. Along one
edge of the print a red blotch stained its
smoothness—and within that blotch lay a
flattened human torso, crushed beyond
possible recognition, a rifle like a twisted
gas pipe pressed into the flesh. The
clothes were those of a native.
He flashed an involuntary glance over
his shoulder, then gritted his teeth and
looked in the general direction of Val
Buchanan. She must not see this or he’d
have an hysterical woman on his hands,
not that he would blame her—she was
dead game—but he did not feel so healthy
himself. Resolutely he turned from the
gruesome spectacle and jumped to the
deck of the launch.
As he had expected, the boat was de¬
serted. A glance showed why they had
tied up there. Engine trouble. Tools
GOD OF LIGHT
97
and greasy rags lay scattered about the
floor of the engine pit as though Bu¬
chanan and his men had been interrupted
—as they probably had—by the arrival
of the Thing. Apparently, though, they
had practically finished, for, beside a
loose distributor cap, Murray found every¬
thing in order. . . . Before he did any¬
thing, he decided, he would pick up Val
Buchanan. He would feel safer with her
in the boat.
Loosening the painter, Murray let the
launch drift downstream to the tree on
which the girl waited. After anchoring
the boat to an upthrust limb, he helped
her to climb on deck.
“There’s no one on board,” he said care¬
fully. “I’m afraid they’ve been captured
—by Indians, probably, and taken up¬
stream. Engine trouble stopped them,
I think, but the engine seems to have been
repaired. Possibly we can be on their
trail in a very few minutes.”
Val Buchanan’s expression was one of
determination. She had overcome her re¬
cent weakness.
“Natives around here would never
bother my father,” she said. “But let
that go. We must get to the mine as
quickly as possible.”
Murray nodded agreement. Then he
jumped into the cockpit and went to
work on the engine. He tinkered for a
few moments, and suddenly the motor
leaped to roaring life. He let it run for
a minute, then cut the switch and straight¬
ened up.
“We’ll look for weapons and then
start.” He gestured toward several lock¬
ers. “You start at one end; I’ll take the
other.”
The first locker contained nothing of
interest. The second brought to light a
long brown bottle labeled “Jamaica
Rum.” After momentary hesitation, Mur¬
ray decided it might be useful later on
and thrust it into his hip pocket. With
his hand on the door of the next closet,
he stiffened and turned toward the som¬
ber wall of jungle. Through the normal
tropical noises, ripped the tortured crash
of rending timber and an ominous rumble
of distant thunder — metallic thunder,
growing louder every minute.
M echanically Murray moved
to Valaire’s side and waited, dread¬
ing the sight of whatever might be ap¬
proaching. Slender fingers seized his arm
and clung to it.
The noise mounted rapidly, blotting out
the rising bedlam of jungle sounds. The
walls of the matted forest shook as though
they, too, were afraid. Then directly be¬
fore them an aisle burst open as great
trees crashed and flattened before a thing
of nightmare proportions. It rolled up
to the river’s edge like some fantastic
juggernaut, and hung there poised, as
though contemplating the boat. Sum¬
moned, perhaps, by the sound of the
motor.
Murray drew the girl deeper into the
dubious shelter of the engine pit, and for
moments his astonished eyes saw with
photographic clarity every incredible de¬
tail of the towering monster.
It was a glistening purple wheel fully
two hundred feet in height, a wheel with¬
out a rim. It was metal —purple metal—
and each of its numerous spokes was all
of a yard thick, terminating in a six-foot
umbrella shaped knob. Strangest of all
was the hub of the wheel—a huge metal
sphere, from opposite sides of which pro¬
jected a score of tapering tentacular
cables. Some were coiled tightly against
the face of the sphere ; others touched the
ground, or coiled around the trunks of
trees as though supporting the metal
wheel.
Now several tentacles lashed out; and
in a breath the launch was enveloped in
a web of purple cables that drew it bodily
from the muddy water and whipped it up
to the spherical hub of the wheel. During
the nauseating gyrations, Murray, in a
single mad blur of sound and motion,
heard Valaire Buchanan scream—saw her
hurtling through the air—saw a streak of
purple lash out and catch her, saw it whip
her back to the face of the gleaming
knob—felt himself crash painfully into a
niche behind the engine block. In mo¬
ments he found himself wedged there
with Valaire Buchanan dangling limply
ten feet above him.
Murray’s ideas were a spinning, chaotic
jumble.
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
98
“I hope Val hasn’t been injured,” he
thought. “What kind of intelligence
could build, control a machine like this?
Same intelligence that changed the sky.
Really in a spot now, and nothing to do
about it. This must have been the thing
which hit Buchanan and his men.”
Abruptly thought ceased as the great
machine started rolling back along the
path it had gouged for itself. For one
brief moment Murray was aware of a
stupefying gyration as sky and jungle
merged in a sickening, whirling blur—a
roar of deep rolling thunder—then he
glimpsed a wrench leaping from nowhere;
felt it crash with a flare of blinding light
against his skull. Blackness fell with the
fading and dying of all sound.
J IM MURRAY came out of the fog
of unconsciousness slowly, first
aware of a rhythmic, painful throbbing
on the top of his head. He opened his
eyes to stare blankly at a varnished
ceiling above him. Dizzily he sat up,
squeezing past something that looked
like an engine, and stared around him.
Instantly full recollection returned, and
with it came uneasiness and a feeling of
anxiety for Valaire. Vividly he recalled
the purple metal wheel with its knobs
and whipping tentacles; and simultane¬
ously he became aware of a delicate
violet mist that filled the air about him.
Odorless, transparent, undetectable ex¬
cept to sight.
He shrank back against the engine
block and remained motionless, listening.
Faintly the familiar jungle sounds came
to him, faintly, as though far away. With
painful caution he raised his head above
the edge of the engine pit and looked
around.
The launch lay on its side in the midst
of the splintered ruins of shacks which
had once housed the native crew of the
“Diamond Queen.” Fifty feet away he
could see the edge of the pit that led into
the diamond diggings. He could see a
steady violet glow pouring from the
crater.
Nowhere was there sign of life. And
little wonder, for the ground on every
hand bore those unmistakable umbrella
shaped prints pressed deep into the
earth. . . .
Soundlessly, with caution born of the
dread of the unknown, Murray left the
shelter of the launch and started across
the open. The uncanny quiet seemed to
have blotted out every sound except that
far-away, muffled hum of the jungle.
TEALTHILY he moved toward the
edge of the pit. Every nerve and
muscle was strained to hairspring tense¬
ness in his concentration on what might
lie within the mine.
As he advanced, he became aware of
the strangest sensation — a feeling of
reverence, of awe, of worship! With
every step the feeling intensified, became
more alluring. Striving to fathom this
utterly foreign emotion, Murray recalled
the brief mention Val had made of some¬
thing which had seized her in some
strange manner as she flew over the
mine—like some magnet of the mind. . . .
A yard from the edge of the mine he
paused, slid flat on his chest and peered
over the rim. He gasped, and for several
moments could only stare in blank aston¬
ishment.
The diamond workings had grown to
many times their normal size, cutting
deeply into the jungle on the opposite
side. Funnel-shaped now, a tremendous
ramp spiralled around its inner wall, run¬
ning from a point across from him to the
wide base of the funnel—a ramp created
for the use of the gigantic metal wheel,
as the deep-cut tracks revealed.
Far below he saw the unearthly Jug¬
gernaut standing motionless beside a tre¬
mendous mass of unfamiliar apparatus.
Purple machinery, like nothing of earth,
dominated by two huge glowing tubes
that towered above it—tubes that despite
their size, seemed as fragile and delicate
as frozen violet mist.
Murray’s gaze left the tubes and rested
on something even more strange. From
the center of the gigantic bowl of purple
metal that formed the base of the funnel,
rose a globe of pulsing violet radiance.
Only a small part of the mass, it seemed
to dominate it completely. Murray shook
his head; this globe was not part of any-
GOD OF LIGHT
99
thing. It was the heart and brain and
power of all within the pit. For from it
rose that alien light, from it pulsed that
overpowering sense of reverence. It
seemed alive — was alive — supernally
alive, worthy of his worship.
The thought seized him. It pulsed
through him in tempo with the throbbing
pulsation of the light within the globe.
He must go down there, must pay homage
to this wondrous entity—must join those
others—
Those others? The thought jarred.him
to his senses. His lips twisted in a sound¬
less curse. He fixed straining eyes on
minute figures covering the floor of the
metal bowl all around the sphere of light.
Men were there, lying prone, with arms
outstretched. Val Buchanan was there—
Val, her m%id and body subject to this
insane worship!
More than men crouched before the
alien thing. Beasts! A gigantic boa
constrictor motionless beside a great
black-furred jungle cat. A tapir crowding
a howler monkey. Brightly plumaged
birds as one with beasts and men, in their
worship of this being of light.
Brow furrowed with effort, Murray
rose slowly from the lip of the abyss and
drew back—twenty feet, thirty, fifty, be¬
yond the range of that dreadful rever¬
ence.
Mechanically he clambered up over the
sloping bow of the launch and dropped
soundlessly to the canted deck. He slid
into the engine pit and squatted there,
scowling savagely. What should he do—
what could he do? So much depended on
him. He thought of Val Buchanan as he
had seen her dangling unconscious in a
coiled metal tentacle of the wheel. He
thought of her father, of those others
down in the pit—and ominously he pic¬
tured the possibilities of other multitudes
coming under the baleful influence of that
alluring light.
What was the Thing? It must be be¬
hind all the strange things which had
been happening. This ability to create
the urge of worship in man and mindless
beast—it was a fearful power. Abruptly
he shrugged and stood erect.
Somehow the Thing had to be stopped
—and it looked as though it was up to
him.
He turned to the lockers to continue his
search for a weapon which had been in¬
terrupted so strangely. In moments he
found what he sought, a Winchester auto¬
matic, loaded, and with it lay a half box
of cartridges. He dumped the ammuni¬
tion into his pocket, picked up the rifle
and examined it carefully. Satisfied, he
worked his way silently out of the
beached launch. As carefully he crossed
the open ground to the edge of the mine.
As before, that awesome feeling of
reverence assailed him. Furiously he
strove to blot it out, centering every
thought on the purpose he had fixed in
his mind. He would put a slug in that
purple globe if it was the last thing he
did.
D ROPPING prone on the edge of the
pit, he flung the rifle to his shoulder
and sighted along the barrel. Amazingly,
the sight danced before him, wavering
drunkenly. What was wrong with him?
Fever? . . . And even as the question
formed, he knew. The influence of the
Thing down there was becoming too
strong. He had to shoot while he could.
Taking uncertain aim, he jerked the
trigger. The rifle bucked against his
shoulder, and he heard the echoes of the
shot reverbrating through the pit.
Silence for the instant that followed—
then something like sound that was not
exactly sound filled all the purple mist. A
vibration that pulsed through every nerve
and fibre of Jim Murray’s being.
Thoughts drove into his brain, alien
thoughts, filled with reproach, yet tinged,
it seemed, with fear. The fear—if it ex¬
isted at all—was gone instantly, and
somehow Murray was thinking how mad
he had been to consider destroying that
beautiful creation. Why, it was godlike
—it was a god—a God of Light!
It meant only good to men, had come
to this world to lift men from their low
level, to make them like gods—Gods of
Light. For ages it had been planned—
and he had thought to destroy a work
that was older than life on Earth.
Murray’s eyes became fixed upon the
100
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
purple mist that hovered wraithlike be¬
fore him; his vision seemed suddenly to
gain new power. Thoughts that were
alien to him, yet seemed to be formed in
his own brain, slowly merged with a
strange three-dimensional picture grow¬
ing in the mist like a mirage.
He saw an alien city of metal and crys¬
tal and violet radiance, a city beautiful
beyond expression. Its buildings were
tremendous spheres of glittering crystal
in which moved creatures of light. Not
all were violet; every color of the spec¬
trum was there, all vying with each other
in their incredible beauty. He saw living
spheres of light borne from globe to globe
by tentacled metal wheels, saw other
fantastic machinery whose purpose was
not disclosed.
Then the view changed, and he was
looking down upon a great plain sur¬
rounded by low, rolling hills. At first
glance it resembled another crystal city,
this one formed of glistening purple metal,
globes half buried beneath the surface of
the plain. There were thousands of the
spheres, spaced at intervals equal to their
own size, and filling all the valley.
Almost immediately thought of a city
was dispelled by the appearance of an
amazing procession moving over one of
the hills—a seemingly endless line of roll¬
ing, rimless wheels! Each metal giant
bore in its tentacles a glowing sphere of
light. Violet, green, rose, yellow, blue—
a glorious spectacle.
Each of the wheels bore its cargo to
one of the metal spheres; a tentacle
touched the side of the globe, and its up¬
per half folded back as though on a hinge.
Murray caught a glimpse of strange ma¬
chinery within the lower hemisphere;
then the wheel rolled over the edge,
placed its burden of living light in the
center of the cup on a raised platform—
and the metal sphere closed.
Again the scene changed, and Murray
saw a vast horde of purple balls rising
from the plain, flashing up, up from their
parent world, out into space. Saw them
spread over all the heavens, fan out, thin¬
ning, vanishing in an infinity of star-
pricked blackness.
The vision followed one of the globes,
saw it fade out—then fade in again,
speeding toward a knot of glowing
worlds. To Murray’s mind came the
knowledge that it was in distress, must
land.
It flashed directly toward a little
world, the third from the white-hot cen¬
tral star, a steaming world where noth¬
ing lived, where seas boiled, and volca¬
noes belched incessantly through a crust
of hot, noxious mud. Earth as it was
uncounted milleiiiums in the past.
The sphere struck with its speed un¬
checked, struck and vanished, buried in
the prehistoric world.
Again the vision changed. He saw the
interior of the space-ship. There was the
globe of light, unharmed. At one side
pulsed a growing light, a formless some¬
thing that gradually became a mass of
crystalline tubes. As he watched their
light dimmed. They glowed faintly, but
with steady power, as they would con¬
tinue to glow for ages to come, fed by
energy almost inexhaustible.
OW the living Light in the globe
faded, its throbbing slowed, became
quiescent, almost disappeared. A veil of
utter blackness like something physical
drew about the sphere, cloaking it—and
the God of Light slept.
The vision vanished. Jim Murray was
again staring into a gossamer veil of vio¬
let light.
In his mind thoughts still formed,
thoughts of a God of Light that slept
while Earth passed through its infancy,
its lusty youth, drawing toward maturity.
A Light that slept till something—per¬
haps the pickaxe of a native worker in
the Diamond Queen—had disturbed its
slumbers.
“I awakened,” a soundless voice seemed
to whisper in Murray’s brain, “and when
I saw these strange beings like you, I
knew that the time had come when my
mission should be fulfilled. A time when
the life of this world needed the trans¬
formation that my race can give, when
men should become beings of Light. I
have studied your kind, and have learned
—much.
“I strove to communicate with my own
GOD OF LIGHT
101
world, but something in your atmosphere
checked the radiations, casting them
back.* I had to change your sky to per¬
mit the message to pass through. And
soon, soon others of my race will come,
and the transformation will begin.”
The soundless words ended, and Mur¬
ray became aware of a command, firm,
irresistible. He must go down there into
the pit and worship! He arose to the
command and began to run with a
shambling gait around the rim of the pit
toward the end of the spiral ramp. His
body moved without volition of his, and
so moved his mind. Alien thoughts—
how repulsive were all things human—
how glorious the God of Light. Thoughts
of that incredibly beautiful world he had
seen—joy at the knowledge that Earth
would be like it, a world where mon¬
strosities called men, purely physical
and grossly misshapen, could not exist.
Visions of the bliss that would be his
when he, too, would become a creature
of Light. But he must hurry—hurry!
And nothing—nothing must stop him!
The rough terrain, pitted and furrowed
by overlapping prints of the great wheel,
was a treacherous thing, and treacher¬
ously it caught Jim Murray’s feet. He
pitched headlong. The fall slammed the
breath from his lungs, and it wrenched
him free of the hypnosis that had clutched
his reason. Beautiful things he had seen
—like the drug-born visions of a hop-
head—but he did not like ’em!
G ROGGILY he scrambled to his feet,
his gaze sweeping the ground for
the Winchester he had dropped in his fall.
That first shot had missed, but he’d make
* Radio waves are transmitted from sending to
receiving stations by reflection from the ionosphere.
The ionosphere consists of layers of ionized or elec¬
tricity-conducting air from 60 to 300 miles above
the earth. These layers act as reflectors for radio
waves and make transmission possible.
Depending upon the degree of ionization of a
layer, there is an upper limit to the frequency which
may be reflected. Waves of higher frequencies than
this upper limit pass through the ionosphere out
Into space. The air in these layers is ionized prin-
cinallv hv ultra-violet light from the sun. Increase
ivity, accompanied by eruptions in
ften caused the complete fadeout of
transmission.
lent that the God of Light was send-
essage on a prearranged frequency
etrate the ionosphere. Consequently
*- he changed, si-’-*-
hl ?t £%
t the r
e violei
the second one count. That thing could
not take his mind from him again. He
scooped up the rifle—and with the force
of a blow that accursed vibration seized
him—seized him and filled him with loath¬
ing for the touch of metal. The feel of
the cool, smooth surface made his flesh
crawl. He would drop the thing and run
—run down into that pit where he could
worship the wondrous Light. Run—he
must run. . . .
With a tremendous effort of will Mur¬
ray kept the rifle tightly clutched in his
hand and refused to move a single step
toward the ramp. His thoughts were
wildly, desperately, seeking a way out.
He could not fight this thing for long.
Shakily he forced himself to sit down on
the ground—and sat on the rum bottle he
had thrust into his hip pocket back on
the launch.
The rum! He would pour it down,
every drop. He would be hanged if he
would be able to walk, much less run, to
that triple-cursed ramp.
Dropping the Winchester, he whipped
out the bottle, drew the cork—and an in¬
ner voice urgently told him the liquid was
a horrible concoction, poisonous, loath¬
some, something to be cast aside. Nau¬
seated, Murray hesitated. Then hesita¬
tion vanished as the unmistakable aroma
drifted to his nostrils. He would drink.
He tilted the bottle against his lips and
poured the rum down. He drank till he
thought the lining was gone from his
throat, drank till not a drop remained and
hell-fire raged in his stomach. Gagging
and couching, he squatted there, tears
flooding his eyes. He drew in great lung¬
fuls of air and slowly rose to his feet.
He was not feeling the effects yet, but he
would, shortly. Yes, indeed, he would be
feeling it.
H E PICKED up the rifle and strode
toward the edge of the pit. He felt
the soundless voice urging him to move
—toward the ramp. It was quite clear.
He must come down into the pit, down
there to that purple globe. He must
hurry.
“Hurry!” he growled belligerently.
THRILLING WONDER STORIES
102
“What the blazes is the hurry? I’m com¬
ing.”
At the sound of his voice the urging of
the Light died as though it realized the
hopelessness of coping with his liquor-
drugged brain.
He swaggered along the edge of the
pit and finally paused on the lip of the
ramp looking down upon the purple globe
and the wheel, and the huge glowing
tubes. It was lovely, he though. Quite
lovely. He thought of the marvelous
vision he had seen, on the incalculable
age of the Light, and he shook his head
sadly. It was too bad he was going to
smash it. He was going to smash it, all
right. He had to, so Valaire and those
others down there could get up off their
faces. He felt quite godlike about it,
swaying there on the edge of the abyss,
with everything so small and trivial and
far beneath him. And why shouldn’t he
feel godlike? The Light had offered to
make him a God. He shook his head
solemnly. Couldn’t kid him; there was
a catch somewhere.
He wondered if they could hear him,
those little people.
“Hey!” he yelled, waving the empty
bottle above his head. “Hey!”
They did not move; and momentarily
he lost interest in them as the bottle
slipped from his hand and went spinning
out over the pit. He watched it turn end
over end, hurtling down, down, dwin¬
dling, finally lost to his eye.
Teetering perilously on the brink, he
lurched back, tripped over his own feet,
and sat down. He grinned a trifle grog-
gily to himself.
“Here we go again, boys,” he an¬
nounced solemnly.
He was aroused from the armor-like
numbness that was creeping over him by
sudden activity in the pit. He blinked
owlishly to clear the mist from his eyes.
The beautiful tubes glowed and dimmed,
glowed and dimmed; and to the rise and
fall of the violet light the huge wheel
started rolling ponderously up the ramp.
The familiar metallic thunder ripped
through the air. He watched it, nodding
wisely to himself. Since he had side¬
stepped the hypnotic efforts of the globe,
it was trying a more direct attack.
With curious and faintly sobered de¬
tachment, Murray sprawled at the edge
of the ramp and pointed the Winchester
at the tubes. Their flickering light re¬
minded him now of a shooting gallery at
Coney Island. Three shots for a nickel.
When you made a bull’s eye, a bell rang.
Carefully he sighted at the first tube.
The glow brightened, and he squeezed
the trigger. For a second nothing hap¬
pened, and he cursed. Then suddenly
that particular section of the apparatus
vanished for an instant in a searing flash
of light that plumed up from the shat¬
tered tube to the rim of the pit in an
agony of combustion.
Murray rubbed his burning eyes and
blinked away the tears that momentarily
blinded him. With the explosion, the
wheel had faltered on the ramp, but now
with the steady rise and fall of light in
the other tube, it lurched on, thundering
a voiceless threat. As the flashes in¬
creased in tempo, it gained speed, its ten¬
tacles lashing angrily about it.
“Don’ fire till you see the whites o’ their
eyes,” muttered Murray thickly.
He cuddled the stock of the Winchester
closer to him and drew a bead on the sec¬
ond great tube, bulking weirdly through
the smoke rising from the charred and
twisted fragments of its companion.
Again he squeezed the trigger. Again
the flaring, anguished leap of purple fire,
and then—nothing. Nothing but the vio¬
let glow of the God of Light shining
through gray smoke-wraiths rolling up
from shattered, fusing machinery.
Glumly Murray shook his head. Bull’s
eyes, both of ’em—an’ no bells. . . .
On the ramp below him the huge wheel
rolled drunkenly forward under its own
momentum, tilting now to one side, now
to the other. Murray watched with one
squinting eye as it teetered on the edge.
He saw the wildly alarmed pulsations of
the globe. Slowly the wheel started re¬
tracing its path. It gathered speed as it
rolled down the ramp; down, down, its
tentacles whipping and trailing helplessly
behind it. It struck the wall, rebounded,
then leaped out—far out.
GOD OF LIGHT
103
I T STRUCK the floor of the pit with
earth-shaking force, bounded into the
air over the prone worshipers—and landed
in the midst of the machinery surround¬
ing the stumps of tubes.
Skidded—spun wildly into the globe of
living purple!
One high, ringing note sounded in the
bottom of the pit, swelling, rolling out,
deep, bell-toned, as though all the chimes
on Earth had been struck one mighty
blow. The God of Light—died.
Up on the ramp Jim Murray slid gently
into the stupor that at last was claiming
its own. He smiled happily.
“Bull’s eye,” he murmured. “Bells!”
“Feeling better?”
A crisp, cheerful voice penetrated Jim
Murray’s mind as he opened his eyes. He
drew himself up on one elbow and peered
around with bleary uncertainty. Feeling
better? His head was thumping like a
native drum and his tongue felt like a slab
of freshly smoked Brazilian rubber. Had
he ever felt worse ? Some hangover! He
tried to recall the party. . . .
Memory returned in a flood and Mur¬
ray blinked anxiously toward the sky. It
was blue, a vivid, tropical blue. Relieved,
he took stock of his surroundings. He
was lying on a blanket on the deck of
Buchanan’s motor launch, again floating
in the muddy waters of the Javary River.
Standing over him solicitously were the
mine owner and his daughter, Valaire.
There was a smile on the girl’s face that
did Murray a lot of good.
“Feel like a million,” he grimaced,
struggling to his feet. His eyes met those
of Val Buchanan. “Well, we made it!”
The girl’s expression sobered.
“You made it,” she said.
“And we owe you a lot,” her father
added earnestly, struggling with thoughts
that could not find expression.
“Nothing to it,” Murray said uncom¬
fortably, looking toward the mine.
Native workers were busy among the
ruins of what had been their shacks.
From the amount of work they had done,
he must have been out for twenty-four or
forty-eight hours. There was no sign of
the violet glow that had risen from the
pit. Turning to Buchanan, he spoke in a
voice he tried to make casual.
“Are—things dead down there?” he
asked.
“Everything. Nothing there but a few
dead animals. When that wheel crashed
into the mine and smashed things, the pit
turned into a miniature hell. There were
men there, and birds and beasts and
crawling things that the wheel had cap¬
tured. The Light had held them power¬
less—but when the smash came—well,
for a while it was pretty bad. Fortunately
I was armed, and the animals were thor¬
oughly scared, so we came through it in
one piece. . . . Nothing down there now
but bodies and some very strange metal
that may be worth more than diamonds.”
Buchanan looked keenly into Murray’s
eyes. “Did the Light—do you understand
all that was involved in that globe’s be¬
ing here?”
“Yes,” said Murray, “and I’m hoping
that a certain message, if it gets to where
it’s going, won’t find any intelligent life
to receive it.”
“We can only wait and see.” Buch¬
anan’s manner changed abruptly, a twin¬
kle appearing in,his eyes. “Valaire tells
me you were waiting in Remate de Males
to see me about a job.”
“That’s correct. I’m an engineer—
worked everything from Alaska to the
Transvaal. I’d like a chance at Brazilian
diamonds—if you really need some-
“Oh, but we do,” Val interposed warm¬
ly. Then she blushed with rosy confusion
at her father’s dry chuckle.
Jim Murray met Val Buchanan’s gaze
with warm intensity.
“If that’s the case,” he said quietly, “I’ll
give it a trial.”
COMING NEXT ISSUE
BEYOND THE VORTEX
By FRANK BELKNAP LONG
THE READER SPEAKS
(Continued from page 8)
SK?U?5. ‘SiST-oKS
imooth rocketing,
insylvania SFLeagi
. Thanks for the
Pee-lot Wegemer. I hope
"SSfSS
SOLID FUEL
By Dan Wilbite
TWS TOPS!
AT LAST THE SFL
By Robert X. Schick
snip 3
your°rati°ng s^te’m pointer P Any-
i y SKi
TOO SHORT
By Emile E. Greenleaf, Jr.
I LIKE THE NEW FORMAT
By Joe Kennedy
Learn something
about your War Bonds
from this fellow/
st"S'SF^H“u! h sfl
mmmm
Another reason you'buy^Wa^Bondys be-
|5i5i
WAR BONDS
to Have and to Hold
ss:
publication of this message b
THE PUBLISHERS OF THIS
REDUCTIO AD ABSURDUM
PRO
So here we are, just as the old Sarge al¬
ways winds up on the first of the month—
with a pair of Bills, one for and one against.
Usually my bills are all against me. Anyway,
while you junior pee-lots are milling around
over these two propositions or platforms, the
old Sarge will mull over the following bolt
of lightning.
BOTH BARRELS
By Jhettong ko Tal
it! Without f
rected the ba
They have
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other generations men had anthropologi
to fall back on and comfortably accep
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discuss theolog
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accident superior human
to mo Sapier
lacity. He
endocrine fi
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merely needs the GRI
ten in Alice in Wonderland^
farm but by running! (I h;
f lawyers. I wonder if*s<fho<
for the benefit of teacher;
i WHAT YOU
fighting mad and boiling with energy. SO? Wei
. . . what I want to know is HOW his adreua
shoot adrenaline into his blood stream and he i;
what I’m driving at?
Then if a THOUGHT PATTERN can cause c
reaction in the adrenal glands . . . why not tin
thyroids, parathyroids, pituitary, etc? And, IF wi
even give tentative consideration to so radical s
“ AND Pe S °if a we"cAN° alter'it'"""
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Leigh, that^the answer isr
ysticism nor metaphysics b
in "The Reader Speaks.” He ev;
to print scientific hypothesis if
a letter. That plaint togetlie
thought patterns in the minds o;
Now if you space monkeys don’t think this
is a different sort of letter than the common
or garden variety of good-cover, bad-cover,
good-story, bad-story you are in the wrong
kindergarten. Kiwi ko Tal, whether you are
pulling my leg or not, you’ve got me scratch¬
ing my head where it doesn’t itch. I’m a bit
out of my atmosphere, but danged if your
words don’t string together to make inter¬
esting palaver. As I get it, you have presented
in scientifiction nomenclature the old college
debate theme, “Which has the greater in¬
fluence, environment or heredity?” And you
seem to lean toward the personal application
of elbow grease on the part of the subject
(mental, as well as physical) to lift himself
out of his rut and make himself truly the
captain of his soul and the arbiter of his
destiny.
All that I am, all that I hope to be, I owe
to my ductless glands—plus a little personal
attention to the machinery. And, d’you know.
Kiwi ko Tal, it pleases the old Sarge that
you do not subscribe to the practice of blam¬
ing everything on Providence. But then you
aren’t a Rhode Island man, anyway.
I like your letter. I’d like it even if I didn’t
agree with anything you said. You have
broached a subject worthy of a lot of discus¬
sion, and if we get any repercussions, I’ll
broach a full keg of Xeno and wade in next
issue with a few choice philosophic observa-
Next speaker!
PLEASANTLY SURPRISED!
By Henry Eisner, Jr.
Kiwi Dunkelberger, here is a prospect for
that new SFL chapter of yours. So you were
pleasantly surprised, Pee-lot Eisner? And
I’ll have you know that wasn’t tripe; it was
broiled kidney and bacon. For your informa¬
tion, we are not buying any more dictator or
World War stories for the duration. Wilbur
Thomas illustrated STAR OF TREASURE.
Pretty good, wot?
Gas on Stomach
THE STORY
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BEHIND
THE STORY
W E WERE going to present you with
a couple of fine letters here on the
genesis of the two featured long
stories in this issue, but Sergeant Albert de
Pina is so busy nowadays in Uncle Sam’s
Air Service that we simply could not contact
him in time for his “alibi” for writing
PRIESTESS OF PAKMARI. We promise
to do better with the next yarn we publish
by this talented flying writer.
But we are not to be completely disap¬
pointed. Ross Rocklynne, author of this
month’s complete novel—THE GIANT
RUNT—has written us a modest account of
the inception of this splendid story. Before
we show you his letter, let us tell you that
Ross is passing a share of credit where we do
not think it is due. Ideas come a dirr* • a
dozen; it’s what a good craftsman makes of
an idea that builds a story. And we think
you will agree with us that Mr. Rocklynne has
done a bang-up skookum job.
Here is what he says:
Where did the idea for THE GIANT RUNT come
OF THIS AND THAT’
THE SCIENCE FICTION LEAGUE
s ss
noted from comments in several of the letters
in this issue that a number of new individual
members have joined the League and ar
seeking nearby local chapters.
Walter Dunkelberger writes in that he i
trying to organize a new chapter in Detroit.
We expect to have more news for you from
that direction next issue. Meanwhile, if oth¬
ers of you SFL members want to start a local
chapter, get together a quorum of seven mem
bers, adopt a name, elect officers, frame i
simple constitution—and write in to thi
mother league here in New York for a charter.
If you haven’t yet joined the SFL as an
individual, that’s easy. Simply fill out and
mail the application coupon you will find in
this department and send it to us with the
namestrip of this magazine. That’s all—no
expense or obligation. We will send you your
membership card. Should you desire an em¬
blem to wear, include 15c in stamps with your
application, and the old Sarge will send yoi
a swell gold, blue and maroon SFL button.
Happy Spacings.
—SERGEANT SATURN.
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